#Zoom variable

[historyofguns]

Scott Conditt reviews the X-Vision Flex 2, an innovative thermal reflex sight offered by X-Vision Optics. This versatile thermal optic, distinct from traditional telescopic sights, integrates a 2.56-inch AMOLED screen that presents crisp and vibrant full-color thermal images. With features like 1-4x digital magnification, a 25mm objective lens, and Picture-in-Picture (PIP) range, it can detect heat signatures up to 1,700 yards. Conditt tests the sight on a Springfield Armory SAINT Edge rifle, appreciating its intuitive controls and exceptional display. He also highlights its potential for varied applications beyond hunting, including industrial and rescue operations, despite suggesting careful handling of its delicate components like the screen and lens. Overall, Conditt finds the X-Vision Flex 2 a valuable addition to thermal optics technology, particularly appealing to hunters and professionals requiring high-fidelity thermal imaging.

[karingottschalk]

Sigma Corporation of America: SIGMA Announces 10-18mm F2.8 DC DN | Contemporary, the World's Smallest and Lightest F2.8 Zoom Lens for APS-C Mirrorless Cameras – Press Release

[sunbeamlessreads]

Private Negatives - Oscar Piastri x Reader One-Shot

❝ You’re good at seeing things people don’t mean to show. ❞

[oscar piastri x reader] ~7.8k words | rated: E

tw: 18+, smut, voyeurism themes, power imbalance, emotionally explicit content, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it, kids), workplace tension

you’re the one behind the lens. but he’s the one who sees you.

notes: this one was super fun to write for me. i really hope i didn't screw anything up lol. i hope you guys enjoy it as much as i enjoyed writing it. <3

my masterlist

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You keep your head down as you move through the paddock, your camera strap biting into your collarbone and a fresh credential swinging at your hip. The McLaren media lanyard feels heavier than it should. Not in weight—in implication. New territory, new rules; three races embedded with the team, to finish off the season. Vegas, Qatar, Abu Dhabi. Your name on the contract, your watermark on the final selects.

Just don’t make noise.

The paddock is already thick with it—generators humming, pit lane chatter bouncing off the concrete, PR staff herding talent like overcaffeinated sheepdogs. You’ve worked in motorsport before, mostly on the American side: IndyCar, IMSA, a brief stint with NASCAR that taught you everything you never wanted to know about beer sponsorships and flame decals.

But Formula 1 is something else. Sleeker. Sharper. Quieter, even in its chaos. Everyone moves like they already know what comes next. You’re the only variable.

You duck into the McLaren garage and make yourself small in a corner, lens already raised. You find your rhythm fast—motion in bursts, posture quiet, shutter clicks softened by muscle memory and padded gloves. You’re good at being invisible. Better at looking than being looked at.

That’s when you see him.

Oscar Piastri, back turned, talking to an engineer in low tones. Fireproofs rolled to his waist, team polo damp at the collar. His posture is precise—his arms are folded, one foot is slightly out, and his weight is settled like he’s bracing for something. You know the type. Drivers are like that: built for pressure, too used to watching every move replayed in high-definition.

You lift your camera and catch the side of his face—jaw set, eyes somewhere far off. The light’s doing strange things to his skin. You click the shutter once. Just once.

He doesn’t notice.

You lower the camera and frown. It’s not a good shot. Or maybe it’s too good, too telling. You can’t tell.

You move on. The lens doesn’t linger.

Through the next hour, you cycle between pit wall and garage, hospitality and media pens, cataloging the edges of everything: mechanics with grease under their nails, engineers pointing at telemetry with a ferocity that doesn’t match the volume of their voices, Lando laughing too loud at something a comms assistant said. You catch him mid-gesture, mouth open, eyes crinkled—a perfect frame. That one will make the cut.

Oscar again, later—seated now, legs splayed, one knee bouncing under the table during a pre-FP1 briefing. Someone’s talking at him. He’s listening, but only barely. You zoom in. Not close enough to intrude, just enough to see the faint vertical line between his brows.

Click.

He glances up, just then. Not directly at you—at the lens. It’s only for a second.

You drop the camera a beat too late. You’re unsure if he saw you, or if you just want to believe he did. Doesn’t matter. You move.

By the time the session starts, your card’s half full and your shoulders ache. You shoot through it anyway—stops at the pit, tire changes, helmets going on and coming off. Oscar’s face stays unreadable. You begin to think that’s just how he is. Not aloof. Not rude. Just… held.

Held in. Held back.

You catch a frame of him alone in the garage just after FP1. Not polished, not composed. Just tired, human, real.

Click.

You keep that one.

You spend the next hour doing what you’re paid to do, but not how they expect.

Most photographers chase the obvious: the cars, the straight-on portraits, the victory poses. But you don’t work in absolutes. You’re not looking for the image they’ll post. You’re looking for the one they won’t realize meant something until later.

Lando’s easier. He moves like he knows he’s being watched—not in a vain way, but in a way that’s aware. Comfortable. Charismatic. You catch him bouncing on the balls of his feet while waiting for practice to start, race suit zipped to the collar, gloves half-pulled on, teasing a junior mechanic with a flicked towel and a crooked grin.

Click. Click.

He’s animated even in stillness.

You crouch by the front wing of the MCL39 as the garage clears and the mechanics prep Oscar’s car for the next run. The papaya paint glows under the fluorescents, almost too bright. You let the car fill your frame—the clean lines, the blur of sponsor decals, the matte finish of carbon fiber. You shoot the curve of the sidepod, the narrow precision of the halo, the rearview mirror where someone’s scribbled something in Sharpie.

You zoom in: “be still.”

It’s faded. Private. You don’t ask.

Oscar again.

He’s suited now, fully zipped, gloves tugged on sharp fingers, balaclava pulled to his chin. A McLaren PR assistant hands him a water bottle, saying something you can’t hear. He nods once. That’s all.

You adjust your position. The light behind him throws his figure into sharp contrast—full shadows across the orange and blue of his race suit, his name stitched at the hip, his helmet in hand. It’s a photo that shouldn’t work. But it does.

Click.

Helmet on. Visor down. The world shifts. He’s gone behind it again.

You lower your camera. Breathe out.

The difference between a person and a driver is about seven pounds of gear and one hard blink. You’ve seen it before. But this is the first time it’s made your fingers tremble.

You offload everything just before sunset, feet sore, mouth dry, memory cards filled past your usual threshold. The McLaren comms suite is quieter now—the day's buzz winding down into a lull of emails, decompression, and PR triage.

You’re at a corner table, laptop open, Lightroom humming. You work fast, fingers skimming across the touchpad and keys, instinctively flagging selects. You’re not here to overshoot. You’re here to find the frames. The ones that breathe.

A shadow crosses your table.

“Show me something good,” Zak Brown says. His voice is casual, but not careless. Nothing about him ever really is.

You shift the screen toward him. He slides his hands into his pockets and leans in. Just enough to see, not enough to crowd.

Silence.

You’ve pulled ten frames into your temp selects folder: Lando mid-laugh, a mechanic half-buried in the undercarriage with only his boots showing, Oscar’s car being wheeled back into the garage under high shadow, smoke curling from the brakes.

Then there’s him.

Oscar, post-FP1. Fireproofs peeled down to his waist. Sitting on the garage floor with his back against the wheel of his car.

Zak exhales. “Didn’t know the kid had this much presence. Or soul.”

You hover the cursor over the next shot—Oscar standing behind the car, half-suited, helmet under one arm, visor still up. His gaze off-frame. Brow furrowed. Light skimming the cut of his jaw.

Zak glances at you. “You ever thought about sticking around longer?”

You don’t answer. Not because you haven’t thought about it, but because you’re not sure you should.

That’s when you feel it. The shift in the air. That quiet, unmistakable stillness that means someone’s watching.

You turn.

Oscar is standing a few feet away.

No footsteps. No sound. Just there—calm, unreadable, still in his fireproofs. His eyes are on the screen.

“That’s not what I look like,” he says.

His voice is even. Not guarded, not accusing. Just… uncertain.

You click the laptop shut. “That’s exactly what you look like.”

A pause.

He looks at you, not the screen. “You’re good at your job.”

Then he turns and walks off, no nod, no glance back—just the low hum of the paddock swallowing him whole again.

You don’t head out with the rest of the team.

No drinks. No debrief. No passing your card off to the media coordinator and pretending to relax. You just take your hard case, your bag, and the image of Oscar Piastri walking away burned somewhere behind your eyes.

You don’t touch the selects folder.

You open the other one. The one you didn’t label. Just a generic dump of the shots you couldn’t delete but didn’t want reviewed, not yet.

Inside, there are maybe five frames.

One of Lando, overexposed and blurred, laughing so hard his face distorts like motion through glass. Another of a mechanic in the shadows, holding a wrench like a confession. A stray shot of the track, taken too early, too bright. A mistake. But not really.

And then there’s the one of him again.

Oscar.

Captured between moments—not posed, not aware. He’s sitting on the garage floor, one knee bent, one glove off, rubbing the bridge of his nose. His suit is creased. His helmet is behind him, forgotten. His head is tilted just slightly toward the light. Not enough to be dramatic. Just enough to feel real.

You zoom in, slowly.

The edge of his jaw is lined with sweat. Not the fresh kind—the dried kind, salt clinging to skin after exertion. There’s a furrow between his brows, soft but persistent. His lips are parted like he’s just sighed and hasn’t caught the next breath yet.

You should delete it.

It’s too much. Too intimate. Too still. A kind of stillness that belongs to someone when they think no one’s looking. It feels like something you weren’t supposed to witness, let alone keep.

But you don’t delete it.

You hover the cursor over the filename. The auto-generated one: DSC_0147.JPG.

Your fingers drift to the keyboard. You add a single character.

DSC_0147_OP81

No tags. No notes. No edits. Just the letter. Just the truth, you’re not ready to say out loud.

You sit there for a long time after that. Laptop closed. Lights off. The glow of the city is bleeding through the curtains in faint, uneven lines.

You wonder if he knows—not about the photo. About what it means to be seen like that. About how rare it is, and how dangerous.

The hospitality suite hums around you in low tones—lights on dimmers, coffee machine off but still warm, the faint scent of citrus cleaner clinging to the corners. The carpet is that neutral industrial gray meant to hide wear. The kind of flooring that swallows footfalls. The type of silence you can live inside.

The rest of the team cleared out hours ago. You told them you needed to finish sorting shots for socials. No one questioned it. Louise nodded once, already halfway out the door, and Zak offered a distracted goodnight without looking up from his phone.

Technically, it’s not a lie.

You told them you were sorting selects. You didn’t say which ones.

You’re tucked into a corner booth at the back of the room, laptop open, knees drawn up, one foot pressing flat against the faux-leather seat. The day’s weight settles in your spine—low, dull, familiar. Your body aches in the ways it always does after being on your feet too long, shouldering gear heavier than it looks.

You haven’t eaten since lunch. You haven’t cared.

A few dishes rattle faintly in the back as catering finishes their sweep. After that, it’s just you. You and the quiet click of your trackpad. You move like you’ve done this a hundred times—and you have. This is your space. Not the paddock. Not the pit wall. Not the grid. Here. The edit suite. The after-hours.

This is where the truth lives. After the lights are off, the PR filters are stripped, and no one’s watching but you.

You scroll through today’s selects—the public ones. The safe ones. There’s one of Lando on a scooter, wind in his curls, mid-laugh, and practically golden in the late light. He’ll repost it within the hour if you give it to him. Another of the mechanics elbow-deep in the guts of a car, all orange gloves and jawlines under harsh fluorescents. Sweat stains, sleeve smears, real work.

And then… him.

Even in the selects folder, Oscar’s different. Cleaner. Sharper. More precise. You didn’t filter him that way. He just arrived like that. Controlled. A study in restraint.

But that’s not the folder you’ve got open.

You tab over. The unlabeled one. The one you didn’t offer.

Five images. One thumbnail bigger than the rest—clicked more. Held longer. A private gravity.

The shot is unbalanced. Technically imperfect. You should’ve deleted it hours ago.

You didn’t.

You should color correct. Straighten the angle. Try to fix it. But some part of you—the part that works on instinct more than training—knows that would ruin it. The frame only matters because it wasn’t supposed to be seen. Not even by you.

You sit back against the booth and stare at it. Not studying. Just being with it.

And then you feel it—not sound, not movement. Just a shift in the air.

A presence.

You glance up.

Oscar’s standing in the doorway.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just holds his place near the threshold, one hand resting loosely on the doorframe, like he’s not sure if he’s interrupting. He’s changed—soft team shirt, track pants, hair still slightly damp. Not a look meant for a camera. Not a look meant for anyone, really.

“I didn’t know anyone was still here,” he says.

You sit up a little straighter. “Didn’t expect to be.”

He steps in quietly, letting the door close behind him. Doesn’t make a move to sit or leave. Just hovers a few paces off, gaze flicking from the booth to the glow of your screen.

“What are you working on?” he asks, softer this time. Not performing curiosity. Just… genuinely curious.

You pause. Then turn the laptop slightly in his direction.

“Sorting photos,” you say.

He tilts his head to see. You expect him to take the out, nod, change the subject, or wave off the offer like most drivers do. Instead, he steps closer. One hand is on the booth’s divider for balance, and the other is loose on his side.

He looks at the screen. Really looks.

You’ve clicked back to the safer folder. The selects. It’s still full of him, though—his car in profile, a side view of his helmet under golden light, his hands resting lightly on the halo as a mechanic adjusts something behind him. Not posed. Just there. Present.

You glance at him.

He’s quiet.

Then: “Do I really look like that?”

The question isn’t skeptical. It’s not even self-deprecating. It’s something else. Wonder, maybe. A genuine attempt to see himself from the outside.

You don’t answer right away.

You scroll to the next frame. Him post-practice, hands on hips, visor up. Sweat cooling on his neck. The curve of tension in his spine visible through the suit. You scroll again—him in motion this time, walking past a barrier, the shadow of a halo bisecting his cheekbone.

He leans closer. Almost imperceptibly.

You look up at him. “What do you think you look like?”

He exhales slowly, not quite a laugh. “Flat. Quiet. Efficient.”

You click on the next photo—one you weren’t planning to share.

Oscar, half-turned. Not looking at anyone. Not performing. His face caught in mid-thought, eyes unfocused, something private flickering there and gone.

“You’re not wrong,” you say. “But you’re not right either.”

He studies the screen. Closer now. You can smell the faint trace of soap on his skin. He’s not watching himself anymore—he’s watching what you saw. And something about that visibly unsettles him.

“These are different,” he says after a moment.

You nod once. “They weren’t meant for the team folder.”

He looks at you then. Really looks.

Not guarded. Not suspicious. Just aware of you, of the space between you, of whatever it is this moment is starting to become.

You don’t look away from him. Not when his eyes finally lift from the screen. Not when they meet yours.

It’s not a long stare. But it’s not short either.

He blinks once and turns back to the laptop, brows drawing together—not in discomfort, but in something closer to focus. Like he’s still trying to understand how you’ve caught something he didn’t know he was showing.

You let the silence hold. Let it stretch into something close to peace. There’s no PR rep in the room, no lens turned back on him. Just you, the laptop, the low hum of refrigeration from the kitchenette, and Oscar Piastri looking at himself like the photo might answer a question he’s never asked out loud.

He gestures faintly toward the screen. “Do you photograph everyone like this?”

You know what he’s really asking. Not about composition. Not about exposure. About intention. About intimacy.

“No,” you say.

That’s it. One word. No performance. No clarification.

His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile—more like a muscle catching a thought before it can turn into something else.

Another moment passes.

Then he shifts his weight slightly, hand brushing the table's edge as he leans in just enough to be beside you now, not just behind. Not touching. Not crowding. But near.

You don’t move away.

And he doesn’t move forward.

You both stay still, eyes on the screen now, like that’ll save you from the implication already thick in the air.

On the screen, he’s in profile. Brow relaxed, mouth parted like he was about to speak but didn’t. You remember the exact shutter click. You hadn’t meant to capture that. It just happened.

“I don’t remember this moment,” he murmurs, half to himself.

You almost say, That’s what made it real.

Instead, you close the photo. Not to hide it. Just to breathe.

You don’t open another image. You don’t need to.

He’s still standing beside you, and the silence between you has started to feel like something structural—a pressure system, an atmosphere. He hasn’t moved away. And you haven’t pulled back.

You’re not touching. But you feel him. The warmth of his shoulder. The stillness of his breath. The way his presence shifts the air around your body like gravity.

You glance sideways.

He’s not looking at the screen anymore.

He’s looking at you.

Not boldly. Not playfully. Just… plainly. Like he’s seeing you in real time and letting it happen.

He doesn’t speak right away. You think he might—you think the moment’s cresting into something spoken, into confession or contact or maybe just a name dropped between sentences. But instead, his gaze flicks once back to the laptop. Then to you again.

And all he says is:

“You’re good at seeing things people don’t mean to show.”

It’s not a compliment. Not exactly. It’s not judgment either.

It’s just true.

You swallow. Your throat is suddenly dry. You don’t know what to say to that. You don’t think he expects an answer.

He steps back.

Not abruptly. Just enough to break the spell.

His hand brushes the table's edge as he moves—the lightest contact, accidental or deliberate, you don’t know. Then he straightens.

Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t say goodbye.

Just leaves.

The door clicks shut behind him like a shutter closing.

You don’t move for a long time.

The garage is quieter after a successful qualifying than anyone ever expects.

There’s no roar of celebration, no sharp silence of defeat—just the low, rhythmic scrape of routines. Cables coiled. . Tools clacking back into cases. Mechanics speaking in shorthand. Half-finished water bottles stacked in corners like the day couldn’t quite decide to end.

You stay late to shoot the stillness. The after. The details no one asks for but everyone remembers once they see them: the foam of rubber dust around a wheel arch, the long streak of oil under an abandoned jack, the orange smudge of a thumbprint on a visor that shouldn’t have been there. These are your favorite frames—the ones no one knows how to stage.

You think you’re alone.

You aren’t.

Oscar’s there—crouched beside his car, still in his fireproofs, the top half tied around his waist. His undershirt is damp across his back. His gloves are off. One hand rests on the slick curve of the sidepod, like he doesn’t want to leave it just yet.

He doesn’t look up at you. Not at first. Maybe he hasn’t noticed you’re there.

But you raise your camera anyway.

Not for work. Not for the team. Just to capture what he looks like when no one’s telling him how to be.

You half-expect him to move—to shift, to block the frame, to glance up with that quiet indifference you’ve learned to recognize in him.

He doesn’t.

He lifts his head.

And holds your gaze.

You freeze, viewfinder still pressed to your eye. Your finger hovers over the shutter. One breath passes. Then another.

You click once.

The sound is soft but rings like a shot in the hollow space between you.

He doesn’t blink.

You lower the camera.

He stands. He steps closer.

Not dramatically. Not like someone making a move. Just a fraction forward, enough that you catch the warmth of his body before you register the space between you is gone. His suit still carries the heat of the day—sweat-damp fabric, residual adrenaline, maybe even rubber and asphalt baked into the fibers.

You could step back.

You don’t.

You look at him. Not through a lens. Not through the controlled frame of your work. Just him. Face bare, eyes steady, skin flushed faintly pink from the effort of the race, or maybe from this—from now.

His gaze drops—not to your lips. Not to your hands. To your camera. Still hanging there. Still between you.

“I thought it’d bother me,” he says, voice low. “Having someone follow me around with a camera.”

You don’t speak. Just let him say it.

“But it doesn’t,” he adds. “Not with you.”

That lands somewhere in your chest, soft but irreversible.

You tilt your head slightly. He mirrors it, barely perceptible—like you’re both circling something you’ve already agreed to, but neither of you wants to be the first to name it.

Your hand twitches—a half-motion toward his arm that you stop before it lands. He catches it anyway. You see it flicker in his eyes: awareness, restraint, the line he’s thinking about crossing.

And for a second, you both just breathe.

You can hear his, shallow and careful. You wonder if he can hear yours.

He looks at you again, not past you, not through you. At you.

He takes that final step toward you.

Close now—too close for the lens, too close for performance. Just the space where breath meets breath. Where silence turns into touch.

Your camera strap tugs lightly at your neck, caught between your bodies. The lens bumps his ribs—not enough to hurt, just enough to remind.

He glances down at it. Then back up at you.

You hesitate.

For a moment, it’s a question: leave it on, keep the wall up, pretend this is still observational. You could. You’re good at hiding behind it.

But not now.

Not with him.

You reach up, slow, deliberate, and lift the strap over your head. The camera slides down and into your palm with a soft weight. You turn and place it on the workbench beside you. Careful. Quiet. Final.

When you face him again, the air feels different.

Lighter. Sharper. Bare.

He looks at you like something just shifted—like whatever existed between you when you were holding the lens has burned away, and now you’re just here. With him.

You take a breath.

So does he.

And then he kisses you.

No warning. No performance. Just the simple, exact motion of someone who’s been thinking about it too long.

His lips find yours with surprising clarity—not tentative, not rushed, but precise. Like he knows how not to waste the moment. Like he doesn’t want to use more force than he has to. His hand comes up to your jaw, steadying. Guiding. His thumb brushes just beneath your ear.

You sigh into it before you realize you’ve made a sound.

It isn’t a long kiss.

But it says enough.

You part—barely—breath warming the inch between your mouths.

Oscar looks at you the way he did in of some your photos. Like he sees you and doesn’t need to say it.

You don’t speak.

You just pull him back in.

After that second kiss—deeper, hungrier, not rushed but no longer careful—your back bumps against the edge of the workbench. Something shifts behind you, a soft clatter of tools or metal. Neither of you reacts, beyond a quick glance to make sure your camera is still ok.

Oscar’s hand finds your waist. Not pulling. Just grounding. He’s breathing hard now—not from nerves, but from restraint. From the way his body wants more than it’s being given.

You want more too.

But not here.

The garage is still too open. You can feel the risk of movement beyond the wall, the flicker of voices down the corridor. You know better than to do this out in the open. And so does he.

You draw back slightly. Not far. Just enough to say: we can’t stay here.

He meets your eyes. Doesn’t ask where.

He just follows.

You slip out through the back corridor, your boots soft on the concrete, camera long forgotten. The hallway narrows. The air feels different—more insulated. Familiar layout. You’ve walked this path before, with your eyes forward and your badge visible.

But this time, you pause.

The door ahead is unmarked, but you know it’s his.

You don’t hesitate.

You open it.

Inside: the quiet hum of ventilation. A narrow cot. A low bench. His helmet bag in the corner. A duffel unzipped and half-collapsed against the wall. One small light left on, warm and low. A private space, lived-in but untouched. No one else is supposed to be here.

The door clicks shut behind you.

It’s quiet. Not padded silence—earned silence. The kind you get after twenty laps of tight corners and exact braking. The kind where everything else falls away.

You put your camera on the bench now.

Oscar stands behind you.

You feel him before you hear him—a shift in air, in presence. And when you turn, he’s already moving.

This kiss is different.

Less measured. More real. His hands find your waist, then your back, sliding up beneath your shirt—fingertips slow, but sure. Like he’s still learning the shape of permission. Like he won’t take anything you don’t give.

But you give it.

You pull at the hem of his undershirt, and he lets you. It peels off in one clean motion. His skin is flushed, chest rising with each breath. The restraint that’s lived in his shoulders for days has nowhere left to go.

Your hands map over it.

He kisses you again, harder now, with that same focused precision you’ve seen in every debrief photo, every lap line, every unreadable frame. But this time, it’s turned inward. On you.

He makes a sound when you push him back onto the bench—not a moan, not yet. Just a low breath punched from his chest, like he didn’t expect you to take the lead. But he doesn’t stop you.

He just watches.

You settle onto his lap, knees straddling his thighs, and he lets his hands drag up your sides like he’s cataloguing every inch. Your shirt rises. His mouth follows.

He kisses you there, just beneath your ribs, then lower.

By the time you reach down to tug at the knot in his fireproofs, his breath is uneven. Controlled, but slipping.

“You okay?” you ask, voice low.

He nods. Swallows.

Then, quietly: “You’re not what I expected.”

You lean in, lips at his ear.

“Neither are you.”

Oscar doesn’t rush.

Even as your fingers fumble with the tie at his waist, even as his hands trace your hips like he’s memorizing something that won’t last, he stays grounded. Breath steady. Eyes on yours. Like he’s still trying to be sure—not of you, but of himself.

You press your forehead to his, lips brushing his cheek, and whisper, “Lie back.”

He does.

You shift to the cot together, clothes half-off, half-on—his fireproofs peeled down, your underwear already sliding down your thigh, your shirt somewhere behind you on the floor. It’s not perfect. It’s not staged.

But it’s real.

He lets you settle over him first. Let's you find the angle, the rhythm, the breath. His hands stay at your hips, thumbs pressing into the softness there like he doesn’t want to grip too tight, like this might still vanish if he closes his eyes.

He exhales sharply when you take him in.

You sink down, slow, controlled—the way he drives, the way you shoot. Like it’s all about reading the moment.

His breath stutters. His mouth opens, but no words come out.

You roll your hips once, slow and deliberate.

Then he says it. Quietly.

“Thank you.”

It’s not a performance. Not something meant to be romantic. It slips out like instinct, like he doesn’t know how else to name what’s happening.

You still, just slightly, your hand on his chest.

“For what?” you breathe.

He looks up at you, eyes wide, completely unguarded for the first time. His answer is barely audible.

“For seeing me.”

You freeze, just for a breath.

It’s not what you expected. Not from him. And not here, like this. But he says it without flinching, without looking away.

And then, just as your chest tightens, just as you reach for something to say, he exhales sharply through his nose—

And flips you.

Your back hits the cot with a soft thud, the thin mattress barely muffling the motion. You barely manage a breath before he’s over you, hips slotting between your thighs like they’ve always belonged there.

It’s not rough. It’s measured. Intentional. Every part of him radiates heat, tension, and restraint held so tight it hums beneath his skin.

Oscar leans in—forearm braced beside your head, the other hand gripping your thigh as he presses it up, open, wide. He looks down at you like you’ve stopped time. Like he’s memorizing what it feels like to have you under him.

“You don’t get to do all the seeing,” he murmurs, voice low and firm. “Not anymore.”

Then he thrusts in.

Slow. Deep. Full.

You cry out—not from pain, not even surprise, but from the way it takes. All of him. All at once. The way he fills you like your body was waiting for it.

He doesn’t move right away. Just holds there. Buried inside you, chest rising and falling against yours. He dips his head to your neck—not kissing, just breathing there, letting the moment press into both of you.

Then he rolls his hips.

Long, steady strokes. Not fast. Not shallow. Each one drags a breath from your lungs, makes your fingers claw at his shoulders, his back, anything you can hold.

“You feel…” he starts, but doesn’t finish.

He doesn’t need to.

He shifts, adjusting your leg higher on his hip, changing the angle—

God.

He feels the way your body stutters, tightens, clenches around him, and groans—quiet, rough, broken. His control flickers. You feel it in the way his pace falters for just a second, then steadies again, even deeper now.

Your thighs shake.

Your nails dig in.

His mouth finds your jaw, then your lips—hot and open, tongues brushing, messy now. Focused turned to need.

He thrusts harder. Not brutal. Just honest. Like he’s done pretending this isn’t happening.

“You wanted this,” he pants into your mouth. “You watched me like—like I wouldn’t notice.”

You nod, breathless. “I did. I couldn’t—fuck, Oscar—”

“That’s it,” he whispers. “Say it.”

“I wanted you.”

His hips snap forward.

“I want you.”

He groans, low in his throat, and fucks you harder.

The cot creaks under you. The air is damp. Your legs are wrapped around him now, pulling him closer, locking him in. He thrusts deep, precise, again and again—your body no longer holding shape, just pulse and friction and heat.

He knows you’re close.

You feel him watch you—not just your face, but your whole body as it trembles under him. His hand slides down, between your thighs, two fingers pressing exactly where you need them, circling once—

And you break.

It tears out of you—sharp and full and shattering. You gasp his name. Your back arches. Your whole body pulses around him, and he feels it—curses once, softly, like he’s never come like this before.

He thrusts twice more, rougher now, chasing it, falling into it.

Then he groans deep in your ear and comes, spilling into you with a low, drawn-out moan. His body stutters against yours, then goes still.

You stay like that. Twined together. Sweaty. Breathless. Quiet.

Not speaking yet.

Just feeling everything settle.

He stays inside you for a few long seconds—breathing hard, his forehead pressed lightly against yours, the heat between your bodies thick and grounding.

Neither of you speaks.

Eventually, he shifts.

Withdraws with a low groan, like he didn’t want to but had to. You wince a little at the loss, at the sensitivity. He notices.

“Hang on,” he murmurs.

He stands—a little unsteady, a little flushed—and crosses to the corner without putting anything back on. You watch him: tall, bare, hair a mess from your hands. He grabs a towel from a low shelf and brings it back, gently nudging your legs apart to clean you up.

You half-laugh through your haze. “Didn’t take you for the towel type.”

“I’m methodical,” he mutters, like that explains it.

You tilt your head. “Is that what we’re calling this?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just focuses on being careful—one hand steady on your thigh, the towel warm and folded, the silence less awkward than it should be.

Then, quietly: “I’m sorry I didn’t have a condom.”

You blink.

His voice is low, calm, but not casual. Intent.

“I’ll get Plan B tomorrow,” he says. “I’ll—figure it out. I just didn’t think…”

He trails off.

You reach for his wrist. “It’s okay.”

He looks at you, really looks, and nods once. More to himself than you.

He tosses the towel to the floor. You sit up slowly, legs unsteady, shirt still off, everything about this moment too real to feel like aftermath.

He starts to pull his fireproofs back up.

You watch him for a second. Then, without thinking, you ask:

“Do you regret it?”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t hesitate.

“No,” he says. Then, quieter: “Do you?”

You shake your head.

“I don't think so,” you whisper.

And you mean it.

For a long moment, neither of you moves.

Then your eyes drift to the bench, where your camera still rests, right where you left it.

You reach for it.

Not out of instinct. Out of something slower. Softer. He watches you, but doesn’t stop you.

You flick it on. Adjust nothing. Just cradle it in one hand as you shift down onto the cot again, your body still warm, your shirt forgotten somewhere on the floor.

Oscar follows.

He lies beside you, then settles halfway across your chest—head tucked into the curve of your shoulder, one arm looped around your waist. His breathing slows against your skin.

He doesn’t speak.

You lift the camera, carefully—just enough to frame the moment.

No posing. No styling. Just him, resting against you, the tension drained from his body, his face soft in a way you’ve never seen it before.

You take one shot.

Just one.

No flash. No click loud enough to stir him. Just the soundless capture of something unrepeatable.

You lower the camera and let it rest on the floor.

Then you press your hand to the back of his neck, fingers brushing the sweat-damp hair there.

He doesn’t move.

And for the first time all night, you let yourself close your eyes too.

The light coming through the slatted blinds is too thin, too early, and absolutely not the kind of light you wanted to wake up to.

You blink. Once. Twice. Then freeze.

Oscar is still asleep on your chest.

His arm’s heavy across your stomach. His mouth is parted just slightly, his breath warm against your ribs. The sheet barely covers either of you. Your leg is tangled between his. Your camera’s on the floor, lens cap off, body smudged from where your hand landed in the dark.

And from somewhere beyond the door, you hear voices.

Early. Sharp. Professional.

Your blood runs cold.

“Oscar,” you hiss.

He doesn’t move.

You jab your fingers into his side.

He grunts. Groggy. “Five more—”

“No, Oscar. People are arriving.”

That wakes him up.

He blinks fast, eyes wild for a second, then zeroes in on your very, very naked body, “Shit.”

You’re already rolling off the cot, grabbing for your shirt, your underwear, anything. He sits up, hair sticking up in every direction, blinking hard like he’s trying to reboot.

“Where are your—?” he starts.

“Somewhere under you,” you snap, tugging your jeans over your legs with one hand while trying to find your bra with the other. “How the fuck are people already here? It’s—”

He glances at the clock.

“Five fifty-eight.”

You freeze. “AM?!”

He shrugs, one leg in his fireproofs. “We’re a punctual operation.”

You glare. “You owe me a coffee for this.”

“I’ll bring it with the Plan B,” he mutters, hopping on one foot, still trying to get the other leg into his pants.

You both freeze.

Half-dressed. Half-wrecked. Fully undone.

Your eyes meet—and something flickers. Not fear. Not regret. Just recognition.

Then the laugh slips out.

His first. Yours chasing after it. Quiet. Breathless.

It’s not elegant. It’s not even sane. But it cuts through the panic like oxygen.

And somehow, it’s enough to pull yourselves back into motion.

By the time you make it out of Oscar’s room, it’s six-fifteen.

The sky is still dark, just starting to take on that pale, pre-dawn blue that makes everything look more suspicious. The air is cool against your sweat-damp skin. Your shirt clings uncomfortably beneath your jacket. Your hair’s a disaster. There’s dried spit on your collarbone.

You try to ignore it.

You sling your camera bag over one shoulder and walk fast, like speed is professionalism. Like maybe if you move quickly enough, no one will notice that your bra is in your pocket.

The paddock is starting to stir—lights in the garages flipping on, early logistics staff wheeling carts, someone laughing too loud over a radio.

You don’t look at anyone.

Instead, you beeline for the McLaren hospitality suite—the same corner booth you’d claimed last night.

You slide into it like you’ve been there for hours.

You open your laptop. Plug in your card. Scroll through a few photos like you’re reviewing footage from a very long, very productive night.

You sip from the cold cup of tea you left there the evening before.

Someone passes by and nods. You nod back, like, Yes, I live here now.

And when you’re finally alone again—no footsteps, no voices, no Oscar—you flick through the frames.

And there it is.

Oscar. Half-asleep on your chest. One arm slung across your waist. Face soft. Human. Completely unguarded.

You don’t smile. You don’t linger.

You just right-click and rename the file:

DSC_0609_OP81

Then you close the folder.

The room is quiet. Still holding the shape of him.

You let it sit for a few more minutes—the aftermath, the ache, the image that still feels too close.

Then you move.

Hotel. Shower. Clothes. Routine like armor. You scrub his breath from your skin and pull your hair back like a statement.

By the time you reappear, you look like someone who’s been working since dawn.

You slip back into the hospitality suite just after seven-thirty, hair still damp, your badge hanging neatly over a neutral jacket. You walk like you’ve been here all night. Like you didn’t sneak out of Oscar Piastri’s driver’s room just before the first truck arrived.

The booth where you left your laptop is still yours—same coffee cup, same open Lightroom window, same half-edited photo of brake dust curling off a rear tire. You slide into the seat like nothing’s changed.

Your body aches.

Not in a bad way.

Just in a you-should-not-have-done-that-on-a-thin-mattress-with-an-F1-driver kind of way.

You sip lukewarm tea. You click through a few photos. You try to find your place again—in the day, in your work, in your skin.

You almost have it.

And then Oscar walks in.

He’s clean. Composed. Damp hair pushed back. Fresh team polo. His eyes sweep the suite once, briefly, and stop on you.

Not long. Just enough to register.

You feel it in your throat. In your chest.

He keeps walking.

You don’t look up again. You wait until he’s out of sight.

Then, casually, like you’re just checking the time, you unlock your phone.

There’s a tag notification at the top of the screen.

@oscarpiastri tagged you in a post.

Your stomach tightens.

You tap it.

The photo loads slowly—the Wi-Fi is never good this early—but you already know. You can feel it before it appears.

And there it is.

One of yours.

Oscar, from Friday. Fireproofs rolled to the waist. Helmet in hand. Standing just off-center, eyes somewhere past the camera. The light is warm and sharp. The moment is quiet.

He looks human. Present. Exposed.

You didn’t submit that one for publishing yet.

You didn’t even color-correct it.

But he posted it.

No caption. No emoji. No flair.

Just a tag. 

Your throat goes dry.

You swipe up to see the comments.

'he NEVER posts like this' 'why does this feel personal' 'who took this photo?? i want names' 'soft launch energy or what'

You lock the screen.

Then unlock it again.

Same image. Same tag. Same hush in your chest.

He chose this. Publicly. Silently. Deliberately.

You don’t know what to feel.

Except seen.

And maybe a little bit fucked.

You flip back to Lightroom, but your fingers don’t move.

The cursor hovers over a batch of unprocessed photos. Tire smoke. Candid Lando. Engineers pointing at telemetry. Everything you’re supposed to be focused on. Everything you usually love.

You stare straight ahead, forcing your breath to even out.

Footsteps approach—light but confident.

You don’t look up until he’s beside you.

Zak.

Coffee in hand. Shirt pressed. Sunglasses hanging off his collar like it’s already noon. He doesn’t sit; he just leans one hand on the booth’s divider and glances at your screen.

“Anything good in there?” he asks.

You click once, purely for show.

“A few,” you say.

He nods. Then gestures vaguely toward your phone, which is still facedown on the table.

“You see what Oscar posted?”

Your throat tightens.

You don’t look at him.

“Yeah,” you say. “This morning.”

There’s a pause.

You don’t fill it.

Zak hums. A noncommittal sound. But there’s something behind it. Something knowing.

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen him post a photo of himself that wasn’t mid-action,” he says. “Certainly not one that… quiet.”

You glance up. He’s not looking at you. He’s scanning the room, like he’s talking about the weather.

Then he looks down.

“That one yours?”

You nod. “Yeah. From Friday.”

“Hm.” He sips his coffee. “Good frame. Eyes open. Looks like a person.”

You don’t answer.

Zak straightens, adjusts his watch.

“Well,” he says, already turning away, “don’t let him steal your best work for free.”

And then he’s gone.

You don’t move.

Because your heart is pounding.

Not from guilt.

From the sick, unshakable feeling that something real is happening, and people are starting to see it.

You’ve made it almost four hours without thinking about it.

Or at least—without actively thinking about it.

You’ve answered emails, flagged selects, and dropped a batch of your best Lando photos into the team's "for publishing" drive. You’ve even had a second coffee. You’ve done everything you’re supposed to do, professionally and invisibly, just like always.

But your phone’s still sitting face down next to your laptop. And it keeps catching the corner of your eye like it knows.

You flip it over. No new notifications.

You open Instagram anyway.

The post is still there. Still climbing.

Sixty thousand likes now. More than three hundred comments. You stop scrolling after the third one that says something about the way he looks at the camera, like he knows who’s behind it.

You close the app.

You open it again three minutes later.

You don’t know what you’re waiting for.

Until the screen lights up.

Oscar Piastri

10:02 a.m.

You okay with me posting that? Didn’t mean to make things harder.

You read it once.

Then again.

Then three more times, like you’re searching for a different meaning. Like the phrasing might shift if you look long enough.

It doesn’t.

You picture him typing it—sitting somewhere behind the garage partition, race suit half-zipped, that permanent crease between his brows as he stares at the screen too long before hitting send. You picture him thinking about the photo. About what it looked like. About how it felt.

About you.

You rest your phone on your thigh and stare out the window beside your booth.

It’s bright now—full daylight. The paddock’s humming. Lando’s somewhere laughing too loudly. Zak just walked by again, talking about tire wear. You’re surrounded by normal.

But nothing feels normal.

Your phone buzzes again.

Same name.

Oscar Piastri

10:06 a.m.

I’ll still get the Plan B. After work. Just didn’t want you to think I forgot.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding.

Not because you were worried—but because he remembered.

Because even now, back in uniform, back on the clock, back in the world where no one is supposed to see what happened, he still thinks about what comes after.

You rest your phone on the table. Thumb hovering.

You type:

Thank you. Don’t worry about the post.

You don’t overthink it. You don’t reread it. You just hit send.

And that’s enough.

INBOX

Subject: Assignment Continuation: Photographer, Track & Driver Coverage

Hi,

Following an internal review of mid-season content delivery, we’d like to formally request that you continue in your current capacity with McLaren through the following season. Your on-site coverage—particularly around driver documentation and live access environments—has added measurable value across platforms.

Please note that this recommendation also reflects internal feedback, including a request from one of the drivers for continuity.

If you’re open to continuing, we’d be happy to align on updated terms and logistics for the remaining calendar.

Best regards,

Lindsey Eckhouse

Director, Licensing & Digital

McLaren Racing

notes: well... it's no 'let him see,' but i'd say not too shabby. let me know what you think!! <3

taglist: @literallysza @piceous21 @missprolog @vanteel @idontknow0704 @hydracassiopeiadarablack @andawaywelando @yeahnahalrightfairenough @whatsitgonnabeangelina @missprolog @emily-b @number-0-iz @vhkdncu2ei8997 @astrlape

IF YOU’D LIKE TO BE ADDED TO A TAGLIST FOR ALL OF MY FUTURE F1 FICS, COMMENT BELOW

© Copyright, 2025.

[ranticore]

you will have to zoom in for those maps. sorry

the six broad phocid biotypes and a size comparison. i lined them up by the point of their shoulder. any variation between these is possible as they are not separate species and can all interbreed

inland & coastal phocids' main distinguishing feature is their ability to walk easily on land. they have relatively long limbs and less bulky, cylindrical tails. they also tend to have smaller and subtler patterns of speckles and checkers. They can tackle a wide variety of environmental conditions, but struggle to live fully pelagic lives (though it IS possible) as they find swimming to be more of an energy drain than a pelagic phocid would, and they can't cruise fast enough to travel efficiently between underwater population centres, which are often very far apart due to the natural high speed cruise of pelagic phocids. fully inland "swamp" phocids are unable to swim in cold or deep water and rarely submerge to such an extent that they are not bearing at least some weight on their legs, as the inland swamps of the western continent are not very deep.

pelagics live a life entirely underwater, including giving birth underwater when the time comes. so their body shape is very streamlined, with short legs which are usually joined to the main body below the elbow/knee to reduce drag. their blubber layers are structural and form their little dorsal ridges. in cross-section their tails are actually very tall and narrow rather than uniformly cylindrical. their skin patterns are large and bold and quite variable, serving to break up their silhouettes in the water, confusing predators and prey alike. although outsiders would struggle to tell ribbon-patterned phocids apart, the pattern is unique per individual.

for a relative size chart compared to an unaltered human & other sirenians check out this chart

the most populous of these are the north mid pelagics and the spire coastals.

[lordprettyflackotara]

who’s afraid of little old me? || eyeless jack

smut minors dni 18+ ! tw: primal!eyeless jack, tall!cryptid!cannibal!reader, descriptions of gore/cannibalism, unrealistic predator/prey tendencies, blood kink, biting kink, breeding kink,squirting

full credits to @miss-multi45 for this concept <3

Strength. Skill. Stealth.

These were the traits that made Eyeless Jack believe he was at the top of the food chain. He had fought grizzlies before for fun, just to test his limits. The wolf pack that hunted in Slender woods steered clear of him. His scent was everywhere, along with the screams of his victims still echoing throughout the trees. Jack never had any issue hunting, a deer becoming a treat if campers hadn’t dared to wonder into the forest. With his heightened senses, he could smell or hear any living thing with no troubles. Truthfully the older he got, being an immortal cannibal was making him cocky. The self deprivation and depression was beginning to fade away. He was the best of the best. The only member of his kind. And better yet, he lived like a goddamn champion.

Hunting always put Jack in a good mood, the trill of the chase his favorite part. The potential of the victim, the variables he couldn’t control always made things so exciting.

So he did what he did best, shoving his scalpel in his hoodie and walking into the Slender forest. He was barely twenty feet in, when the sweet scent of metallics hit his nostrils. Jack frowned, lifting up his mask for a moment to deeply inhale. It wasn’t uncommon to smell blood in the forest, after all, Jack wasn’t ignorant enough to think the circle of life didn’t exist without him. But as he inhaled deeply, his eye sockets widened. Copious amounts of blood had been shed on his land and he hadn’t caused it. It could only mean one thing: there was an intruder lurking on his territory.

Not only were you lurking, you were hunting. You might as well have slapped Jack in the face. Jack gritted his teeth, darting into the direction of the scent. He zipped effortlessly through the trees, ignoring all of the curious gazes the forest’s creatures gave him as he zoomed by. Usually Jack stalked his prey effortlessly, he never ran unless he was chasing something. Little did those little chipmunks and squirrels know he was hunting, just something much more dangerous than normal. You.

When Jack had hit the clearing, that’s where he saw you. A secluded campsite that once sat in the open field was now painted crimson red. Tents were barbacilbly torn open, blood trails splattered across the grass. It was something straight out of a horror movie. Dont get him wrong, Jack loved horror movies. But only when he created them. He walked past the abandoned tents, the wind blowing past him only increasing the sweet stench of exposed organs. That’s when Jack saw you. As ethereal as the internet and story tellers had described. Your hair was long and luscious, braided down your back. Your eyes were bright and snakelike, the golden color focused on your meal. You held a young man in your grasp, the life drained from him ages before you had gotten him in this position. His eyes were lifeless, his body slumped over as you bit into his neck. Jack watched silently as you ripped out a chunk of flesh, chewing on it quickly before swallowing it. Jack was puzzled, were you even enjoying the flavor? He watched as you continued to eat the scraps of flesh that remained on the corpse. Blood trailed down your chin, thin splatters of the red liquid were drying across your cheeks.

“Are you going to stand there or are you going to join me?” You asked suddenly. You were very aware of Jack’s presence, the notion alone freaking him out. “I don’t dine with trespassers,” Jack stated plainly. He stepped fully into view, your eyes briefly flickering up and scanning him briefly. “You’re not human, what are you?” You asked. Jacks hands were tucked in his pockets, his height giving away his species. “I could ask you the same. Thought you were just a myth,” Jack replied cooly. You finally looked up from your meal, ignoring the dozens of other ripped apart corpses that laid between the two of you. “And I thought one could only have sight if they had eyes. I guess we both thought wrong,” You quipped. Jack tried to conceal the animalistic growl that boiled in the bottom of his throat. “Allow me to cut to the chase, you’re hunting on taken land,” Jack spat, venom placing his words. Curiously you rose to your feet, the demons eye sockets widening. You were just as tall as him, without shoes. You were bare foot, your long legs glimmering in the sunlight.

The pastel yellow sundress you wore was stained with dry and fresh blood, rising up just above your inner thighs. “The Operator owns this land,” You answered, slowly. It occurred to you that Jack may look human like, but his animal instincts were overriding any sense of humanity he had left. “Right, but I hunt here. My scent is everywhere, I know you smelled it when you decided to slaughter my cattle,” Jack snarled. You narrowed your eyes, momentarily blinded by one of the corpses being reanimated. The young woman was barely clinging to life, her intestines hanging loosely on the ground. Both of you could hear her shallow breathing. “Oh for fuck sake,” You mumbled, stepping over your previous meal. Jack growled, watching you pick up the slumped over body. You grabbed her neck, twisting it to the side. A sharp snap rung through out Jacks ears. “I like my organs fresh,” Jack snapped. You dropped the fresh corpse. Rolling your eyes, you straightened your back. “Her organs were quite literally coated in dirt, is that the freshness quality you were searching for?” You asked sarcastically. Jack’s patience was thinning. In a swift motion he took off his mask, baring his shark like teeth.

“Enough chit chat. I am an apex predator. You are quite literally no where near me on the food chain,” Jack yelled. You blinked, your mind spinning as you contemplated your next move. “Are you really afraid of little old me?” You questioned quickly. Should you laugh? He couldn’t quite possibly be serious right? “Um, I mean we can share the leftovers..?” You asked slowly, unsure how to respond to his animalistic behavior. Jack snarled, throwing himself at you. You were a threat. Jack knew how to handle threats, he did it for Slender on occasion. He was proficient in his ability to kill. Killing you was no exception. You narrowly dodged him clawing at you, his sharp claws ripping through your dress. He was huffing as you both watched the fabric fall to the ground. Shreds of the pastel yellow cloth hit the dirt, a cool breeze sending goosebumps across your freshly exposed skin. Jack’s eye sockets widened at the sight of your exposed breast, a creamy silk lingerie covering you. Jack couldn’t quite remember the last time he had given in to his primal urges to mate. He never considered a human being, due to the likelihood of him breaking them by mistake. But you, you were just like him in an odd way. Your breast were nice and perky, your cunt covered with a thin fabric that he could hardly consider to be undergarments.

He had anticipated you to rush to cover yourself, as the average person would do. But if anything you stood taller. “One minute you want to kill me, the next you’re staring at me like a pre teen boy. Are you bipolar?” You asked. Jack snickered at the question. “I’m a doctor, i’d know if I was bipolar,” He answered. Something about your unwavering confidence only made you more attractive. You were a threat surely, but you seemed to have much more potential as a mate. The primal urge to breed was clouding Jack’s judgment, his temporary territorial rage completely subsided. “I’m no doctor but i’d say you’re animalistic then human,” You say. Jack furrowed his eyebrows. “Oh really? How do you gather that?” He asked. You pointed at his pants, your hands still covered in fresh blood. “Your cock is straining against your jeans,” You say. Jack felt heat rush to his cheeks, before looking down. He hadn’t felt embarrassment for the first time in a long time. Yet here you were, flustering him beyond belief. “You’re cute when you’re flustered. I get the sense that neither of us have had the privilege of mating in a long time,” You said. Jack nodded, trying to seem cool and level headed. “May I make a proposal?” You asked.

Jack agreed, trying to keep his voice steady and even. “I’d say one thing we have in common is the fact we have pent up stress due to what we are. Now, I think leaving you these delicious leftovers as well as allowing ourselves to indulge in our more primal urges with one another is more than fair,” You offered. Jack ran the offer in his head, calculating all of the different possibilities. “And after you’ll leave?” He asked. You nodded affirmatively. “I never stay in one place for too long,” You answered. You walked towards the demon, bringing your index finger to under his chin. You lifted his head up, examining his neck. You could hear his pulse up close, it was beating much faster than the average human. “I will admit though i’ve broken my previous toys in the past. Are you sure you can handle me?” You questioned. Jack chuckled darkly, grabbing your wrist and moving your hand away. “I could ask you the same question,” He grinned. Quickly you brought your lips to his, allowing yourself to shudder under his warm touch as he grabbed your waist. His hands were large and warm, pulling you closer towards him. You could feel his aching boner as you kissed him deeply, the demon on cloud nine.

Your height complimented his if anything, his large hands grabbing your ass. You jumped, wrapping your legs around his waist. The dampness of your panties was already soaking through, leaving a wet spot on his crotch. You whined as you bucked your hips against his, the demon unfazed by your height. You briefly pulled away, nibbling teasingly at his bottom lip. You tasted like blood, as well as faint bubblegum. “You’re stronger than I thought loverboy,” You complimented. Jack roughly brought you to the closest tent, your back hitting a forgotten sleeping bag. “Yeah? Let’s see how you handle me,” He replied smoothly. He kissed down your neck, purposefully nibbling at the sensitive skin. His hands wondered down to your hips, pulling apart what remained of your dress. “I assume you’ll be acquiring me some clothes?” You questioned. Jack shrugged off his hoodie, carelessly tossing it at your face. “Here, that should fit you,” He grunted. Tearing away your panties and tossing them aside, your bare slick drove the demon into a frenzy. He wrapped his arms around your thighs, keeping them pried apart as as began to lap at your cunt.

Your hand instinctively flew down to his hair, tugging harshly at the roots as he stuck two of his tongues inside of your aching entrance. You gasped in surprise, moaning in delight as he curled them upwards. “At least that mouth is good for something,” You panted, grinding against his face. His third tongue flickered and swirled at your clit, pushing you closer to the edge. Your human lovers could never compete with this. He had been buried in between your thighs for mere minutes and you already could feel the knot in your stomach tighten. Jack grunted in response to your comment, delivering a sharp slap to your thigh. A whine escaped your lips, your thighs squeezing around his head. His tongues were merciless, your juices so delicious Jack found himself humping against the tent’s floor to help relieve his aching cock. He could feel your gummy walls squeezing his tongues, a concealed smirk spreading across his lips. You were just as delicious as the chaos you caused. You gave his hair one final tug, releasing all over his face.

Jack contained to lap at your slick until he deemed you clean. You were dazed, but repositioned yourself quickly. Your mouth was watering at the idea of sucking his cock. You’d never wanted something more. Jack quickly pushed you back down, the clinking of his belt sending a shiver down your spine. “Not this time. I can’t go another minute without being inside of you,” He snarled. His sudden dominance only made you more wet, his hands roughly shoving you into a mating press. Jack licked his lips as he pulled out his cock, slowly pushing it inside of you. You whined at the stretch, Jack not failing to notice your claws digging into his arms. “Not so big and bad now are we?” He teased. He let out a groan as he nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your skin. The way you were gripping him, the way your nails were digging into his back. You wanted this just as bad as him. You needed this just as bad as him. He fully bottomed out inside of you, his tip brushing against your g spot. “Holy fuck,” You whimpered. Jack couldn’t help but grin devilishly as he slowly moved his hips. “It’s like you were made for me,” He grunted. He began to pick up the pace, snapping his hips into yours.

His thrust were rough and desperate, his body craving to release into yours. He had never felt such a raw and intense connection before, his body demanding more. “You’re mine, all mine,” Jack grunted. He continued to fuck you, sinking his teeth into your shoulder. You gasped at the sensation, a moan escaping his lips and being muffled by your skin as he sucked at your blood. The metallic taste was euphoric, your cunt squeezing him tighter as he marked you. “Fuck leaving. You’re mine. My mate,” Jack moaned. His thrust became more aggressive, his cock abusing your cunt as he claimed you as his own. You felt your eyes roll into the back of your head, your thighs shaking. “Oh my fucking- fuck! Jack!” You moaned. Jacks thrust were uncontrolled, his body demanding to fill your cunt to the brim. He released your neck, his three tongues lapping at the wound. “This feels nice huh? Being knocked down a peg?” Jack snickered. The feeling of your gummy walls milking him dry was euphoric, the demons orgasm coming closer.

“Gonna fill you up over and over and over. My little mate. Your pussy’s like goddamn heroin,” Jack rambler. You forced yourself to prop yourself up on your elbows, crashing your lips against Jack’s. “You talk too much,” You teased, nipping at his bottom lip. You groaned in his mouth as his cock abused your g spot, your eyes fluttering open as you squirted around his cock. Your juices coated his lower half, the demons hips finally stuttering and coming to a halt. His warm, thick cum flooded your cunt, filling you to the brim. You both were panting messes, Jack utterly surprised when you flipped the two of you over effortlessly. You straddled him, managing to keep his cock buried inside of you.

“So loverboy, wanna go for round two?”

You had so much stamina it was scary. Jack could see it in your eyes, you were ready to go as many rounds as he could do.

Maybe Jack should’ve been afraid of little old you.

[perfectsunlight]

VLOG MOMENTS FROM THE KIM VACATION

minjeong x reader (ft. jennie kim)

synopsis: the kim sisters go on their annual summer trip to hawaii, but this time around, y/n decides to bring her girlfriend, minjeong.

a/n: this is just an idea i had while writing something for my other series: the variable

THE FLIGHT

the video starts with y/n leaning against jennie’s shoulder in the backseat of a car. the blackpink member zooms in on her younger sister’s face, causing y/n to smile and hit the camera playfully.

jennie quickly turns the camera to herself and starts speaking. “we’re currently on our way to the airport, we’re going to be in hawaii for a week. are you excited?” she turns to her younger sister, who nods rapidly.

“y/n is taking her ‘friend’ with us this time, so she’s meeting us there at the airport.”  y/n’s lips curve into a small smile as she shakes her head at her sister’s remark and looks out the window. 

a quick cut shows y/n running up to another person in a hoodie. jennie chuckles lightly and zooms in on the two embracing. there’s a second cut and y/n is recording with her head against someone’s shoulder. “guess who's coming with us,” she says in a sing-song tone and shows the camera, revealing minjeong’s face. the aespa member smiles and waves, earning a chuckle from y/n behind the camera. “cute.” the younger kim whispers at the sight of her girlfriend. minjeong smiles sheepishly before jennie’s voice is heard in the background. 

“i’m sitting in between you two on the flight.”

SHOPPING IN HONOLULU

jennie points the camera at minjeong and laughs as she watches her carry several bags in her arms. “are you sure you can carry all of that?”

the blonde shakes her head quickly, looking over in the direction of where y/n appears to be somewhere off screen. the girls seem to be at a mall. “my arms are about to fall off. i think i need to get back to the gym.” minjeong jokes, earning a laugh from jennie. y/n comes into frame with two more bags in her hand shortly after.

jennie puts her little sister into the frame of the camera. “what did you buy?” she asked while minjeong can be seen adjusting the bags she was holding and stretching her arms.

y/n smiles and waves the bags playfully in front of the lens. “new bathing suits and a new charger because i forgot mine on the plane.” 

“i’ll hold them,” minjeong quickly says as she gently takes the bags out of the younger kim’s hands. the action causes the older kim to start laughing. jennie focuses the camera back onto herself and shakes her head as the trio began walking out of the store. before the clip ends, y/n and minjeong’s voices can be heard off frame.

“baby, you’re already holding everything, it’ll be too heavy.” “it’s nothing, now let me hold it.”

THE BEACH

y/n is seen filming this time, showing the scenery around her. she zooms in on jennie, who seems to be taking a small nap in the shade with her sunglasses on. “unnie deserves a good rest,” the younger kim whispers to the camera before it cuts to the next part, where she’s walking with minjeong as the sun sets behind them. 

minjeong waves to the camera quickly before pointing at the beautiful sunset behind them. “look how beautiful,” she gently takes the camera from y/n to show the sky better.

“more beautiful than me?” y/n says quickly as she jumps in front of the sm idol’s shot. both flustered and amused by the girl’s actions, all minjeong can do is chuckle. “midnight's album is out july 7th.”

“we’re on vacation and you’re promoting your group’s album?” minjeong teases as she gently shoves the other idol. “of course i am,” y/n replies with a smile. “i care about my stargazers.”

“do they know i’m the number one stargazer?” minjeong says quickly as she wraps an arm around y/n’s shoulder. the younger kim points the camera at the other girl again while laughing at her remark.

“you’re not, jennie is.”

THE HOTEL

jennie is seen in pajamas and laying in bed with the hotel tv on. “i’m so tired today, we decided to go snorkeling so we couldn’t film it.” the blackpink member snickered as she recalled an event from earlier that day.

“if you guys didn’t know, y/n doesn’t like snorkeling because the last time we went, a fish went up to her mouth.”

almost immediately, y/n’s voice is heard from off camera.

“jennie unnie,” she groans playfully before climbing into bed with her sister and laying on top of her. she was in a pj set exactly like jennie’s. “don’t expose me.”

jennie chuckles as y/n joins her in bed, wrapping her arms around her sister in a playful hug. “sorry, but it's too funny not to share,” jennie teases, affectionately tousling y/n's hair. 

y/n lets out a mock sigh, feigning annoyance. “i should tell everyone about your swimsuit incident,” she says, shooting jennie a mock glare before breaking into a grin.

jennie gasps dramatically, feigning shock. “you wouldn't dare!” she exclaims, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. the younger girl giggles, knowing she has the upper hand in this playful exchange. 

“oh, i think blinks would love to hear about the great swimsuit malfunction of 2024,” she teases, poking jennie's side. “so what happened was–”

before y/n could finish her sentence, her sister put her hand over her mouth. “we’ll see you in the morning,” she said loudly to the camera, struggling to keep her hand over the younger girl’s mouth. 

“goodnight!”

YACHT

“today we’re spending the afternoon on a boat,” y/n says as she leans against jennie’s shoulder. “minjeongie is taking pictures over there.” she points the camera towards the deck where the aespa member is taking pictures of herself. 

“i’m wearing a blue swimsuit today to match minjeong’s,” y/n takes the camera and shows a quick glimpse of her blue bikini. “yesterday we didn’t film it, but i was matching with jennie unnie at the other beach.”

a quick montage of the ocean, sky, and the trio taking pictures is shown before jennie is the only one in frame. she zooms in on the two younger idols who appear to be taking polaroids with each other.

“y/n always brings her polaroid everywhere,” jennie explains while the focus is still on the other two girls. “she’s always showing her pictures to lisa.”

suddenly, minjeong is seen leaning in very close to y/n’s face. “hey!” jennie shouts at the aespa member, causing her to immediately sit straight up and back away from y/n with her hands in the air. y/n rolls her eyes playfully and laughs at her sister’s antics. “she was moving something out of my face, unnie.”

“i’m sure she was.”

jennie said as she made her way over to the pair and sat in between them before waving goodbye to the camera with a blushing minjeong and a smiling y/n.

[obeythebutler]

For the fluff prompt, may I please have Lucifer and "making funny faces behind the computer while the other one is in a boring Zoom meeting" with Mc being the other one???

It starts small.

The most insignificant of details that the eye won't catch at first glance, but the brain notices something is amiss.

For starters, the pair of spectacles Lucifer always dons is sitting on his desk. You swear he was wearing them just a moment before—your eyebrows furrow—but then you divert your attention back to the screen. The demon continues with his paperwork.

End semester projects require regular progress checks. Your group members are done informing the professor of their progress, now it is your turn to speak up.

"We are done with our research," You say, involuntarily straightening your posture. "We have encountered several problems while trying to know more about the economic practices of the Devildom in the year 1121. Astarion and I have gathered what we could find and compiled it in the document attached in our recent email to you."

"And what is to be done next?" The demon asks.

Magoth speaks up, and you take the moment to grab the bottle of water next to you. You open the cap and take a sip, eyes darting behind the screen.

"We have already verified it from—"

You choke on the liquid in your throat.

Several voices of concern chime in through your speakers as you hack and cough. Hurriedly wiping your mouth, you splutter and blurt out words of assurance. The talking resumes, and your brain can't believe what it saw.

Lucifer, pouting as he stares into his phone, the device outstretched in his left hand. Puckered lips and and all.

"Don't." You mouth the words at the demon, who smirks and raises an eyebrow in challenge.

"This project will be submitted by the end of next month," You pipe in, voice confident of your group's ability to meet deadlines. "There's a survey also planned for extra credit, and Astarion has already formulated the questions."

"Very good! Ah, that reminds me, I've made a new email id—please mail me your survey results on..............."

You make the mistake of glancing at Lucifer.

You have to resist the urge to smile after.

He's winking at you now, comically so, and the demon looks ridiculous.

You mute your mic, and let yourself giggle. "Lucifer," You whine, "I'm in a meeting!"

"Can't I have a little fun now and then?" He says, picking up his pen again. "Besides, you should be focused on the meeting, and not on external variables."

You glare at the demon.

"MC?" Magoth chimes. "Are you trying to say something? Your mic's on mute."

You force yourself to make a polite smile. "Everything's alright! Just a little disturbance. Please, carry on."

You lean back on your chair. The sound of pen scribbling on paper makes for a suitable background noise, and you finally focus on the meeting being held.

You assume the demon has finally calmed down on his rare antics.

Progress is made, conclusions revised, and the meeting is wrapped up in the next twenty minutes.

You close your laptop after, and nearly jump in your seat.

Because there is Lucifer, eyebrows furrowed and a hand grabbing his chin. Lower lip being bitten by his teeth.

This time, you let yourself laugh freely.

[verridaiya]

—The Here, and Now // Dream Blooms

"I see you here, now."

The long-awaited (at least, for me) comfort ending to my mini series! My first ever multi-fic work and my longest fic to date, finally finished. This was way longer than I anticipated it to be. Since it's meant to be a continuation, I would highly recommend reading either parts 1 and 2 (or either one, technically) before this one. I hope you all enjoy <3

Synopsis: Something hangs heavy in the air ever since that night, unspoken and weighty. Determined to change that, you give Sylus a gift.

Contains: Sylus x MC/reader, gender neutral MC/reader, comfort, current timeline Sylus & MC

Word Count: 5.6k

< Part 2 | end >

There’s nothing quite like driving on an open road in the countryside.

Colors blur through the window. The road is an endless stretch ahead, a black arrow cleaving through an expanse of verdant green and loamy brown, loping hills and flat ranges under an infinite blinding blue. Metal flashes under a late summer sun, the only signs of civilization zooming by as they make their way towards the city you left. The world passes by and there is only one thing that remains steadfast beside you—a stroke of alabaster, a touch of shadow, a stain of red. A striking palette that comprises the masterpiece sitting beside you, ever by your side.

And he is driving you mad.

“Is it a theatre?”

There is a permanent scowl etched on your face, your hands a vice around the smooth leather of the wheel. You turn to glare at the headache lounging in the passenger seat next to you, before returning your gaze to the road ahead. His eyes are still dutifully shut at least, hiding those gorgeous, infuriating carmine eyes, his arms crossed with a finger tapping a rhythmless beat.

“Sylus, are you still trying to guess where we’re going right now?”

“And if I am?” He sounds amused, as he always does when he knows he’s getting a rise out of you. He hasn’t bothered turning to you, instead speaking to the windshield of his car. “Will you tell me if I’m right?”

“Wha- no, Sylus!” You cannot stop the exasperation from leaking into your voice. “What part of surprise isn’t clicking?”

The audacity of this fiend of a man. Behind your mild vexation, the anxiousness inside you thrums and grows. Here is one of the many parts of your plan that you have no control over: that Sylus keeps his eyes and curiosity to himself on the drive over. It was a variable you hoped would resolve itself; there were already so many things to worry yourself over.

You bite your lip, run the plan through your head again. Examine the crossed-out ideas, the things you ran out of time for, the what-ifs. There are little blemishes here and there, glaringly obvious in your eyes. They are scabs waiting to be picked at, a scratch you can’t itch without making it worse. It’s too late now to change anything, now that the plan is finally in motion, but it doesn’t stop you from turning it over and over again in your head, unsatisfied with the finished product.

Maybe you should have found a different way to bring Sylus to where you wanted him to go. Maybe you should have been clearer about what you wanted, when you told him to close his eyes. But there is no telling the whims of this man, and you have all but given up trying to read his intentions, mercurial and incomprehensible as they were.

Then again, you were more than a little bewildered when he got into the passenger side of his car obediently after you told him you had a surprise to show him. It’s struck you sometime at the start of the drive that you’ve successfully kidnapped the leader of Onychinus. Well, he came very willingly and without complaint, but still. You had expected more questions and teasing, but he simply smiled and did as he was told. You see now that he was just biding his time, now that you’re trapped with him in this tiny space, luxurious as it was.

“Not a theatre, then.” He hums thoughtfully. You see him rubbing his chin thoughtfully from the corner of your eye. “The new aquarium, maybe?”

“That wasn’t an affirmation or denial, Sylus.” You say flatly. “And stop trying to figure out where we’re going. I’m not going to tell you.”

“An outdoor activity, perhaps.” He muses to himself, throwing one last guess out there. Your heart rate skyrockets. Thankfully, he doesn’t hazard another one and changes the subject. “You’ve robbed me of my sight, kitten. Am I not allowed to speak as well?”

You sigh, feeling the beginnings of an actual headache at your temples. “Of course, you’re allowed to. But you can’t guess where we’re going. Please, Sy.”

A chuckle rumbles through his chest. “You’re the only one bold enough to tell me what I can and can’t do.”

He says that a lot, that you’re the only one. The only one who can drag him out during daylight hours, the only one who can make him wear silly plushies on his head, the only one he brings to those fancy galas, the only one he worries about. You wonder at how many things you are an exception to when it comes to the man beside you and how you came to have such an exclusive pleasure.

Who could ever do anything to me except you?

And it’s true. Because you’re also the only one who’s managed to make him look as pained as he did on that night.

You think about it a lot, that hazy, fever-driven night of warm dreams and unspoken sorrows. Though nearly a month ago now, it still remained fresh on your mind. The sweetness of the dream and that night has long since dissolved, like the candy coating of medicine; now the memory of it only tasted bitter against your tongue. You don’t understand what you said that made him look that way, bereft and grieving. You’re not sure you ever will.

Sylus was something of a legendary figure in your eyes. He didn’t bleed, he couldn’t die. Hell, you’ve fired a bullet directly into his heart and watched the blood fade away like the remnants of a bad dream. He had the unwavering confidence of someone who controlled fate in his very palms and the unyielding power to match it.

And yet there he was, laid bare before you, looking lost and splintered.

You made no attempts to talk about that night after you recovered. To be honest, you weren’t quite sure where to begin, or what to even ask. Maybe you were afraid of the answer. These were uncharted waters for you both, after all—nothing like this had ever happened before in the year and odd months that you’ve known him.

And Sylus, for his part, made no mentions of it either. Instead, he carried himself as he normally would: teasing you, rankling you, endlessly smug, all the while remaining an unwavering presence by your side through missions and holidays alike. Anchoring you, though it feels like you’ve somehow let him slip and sink into dark, suffocating waters.

Ever since that night, something had shifted. You’d catch him, sometimes, staring at you with a far off look in his eyes and something akin to sadness lining his features. When he comes to his senses, realizes you’ve been staring, all he does is flash you a smile and say something teasing, something that distracts you from the question perched on your lips.

There was something separating you from him, something as incorporeal as your dreams but still tangible nonetheless. It was a gauzy curtain hung between you both, a veil you can vaguely see him through, the shape of him blurred and distant. You can feel the weight of it whenever you reach out to him, its texture abstract between your fingers and its heft wrapping around his shoulders like a burden.

You want more than anything to tear it to shreds.

And, hopefully, today will be the first step to doing so.

“I may be the only person who tries to tell you what to do,” you say lightly, unwilling to let your heavy thoughts spoil the atmosphere, “but it’s another thing to get you to actually do it.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Sylus gestures at himself. “Sitting here with my eyes closed like the obedient, benevolent man that I am. Depriving myself of the one thing I adore the most.”

His theatrics draws out a laugh from you. Sylus and obedient are two words that would never find themselves in the same sentence together. “And what am I so rudely depriving you of?”

“You.” Your heart skips a beat. “And the adorable expressions I can get you to make. Like the cute little scrunched up face you’re making now.”

You fight to unwrinkle your nose, smooth your expression. Even if he couldn’t see it, you won’t give him the satisfaction of eliciting a response from you. “Sometimes I think you have eyes in the back of your head or something. It’s creepy, Sylus.”

Amusement colors his voice in warm hues. “I just know you well, sweetie.”

You can offer no retort at that; he really does know you well. Probably the best too, out of all of your friends. You remain begrudgingly silent as you navigate the car through a bend in the road. You flick the sun visor up as the sunlight shifts, arcing its way to land on Sylus instead.

Sylus once told you that he prefers the dark and the cold, belongs there even. There was no place for him in the bright light of the day. But looking at him now, his side profile illuminated, full lips and proud nose kissed by the stray daylight filtering into the dark of the car, you’d be inclined to argue differently. He’d look gorgeous in the sunlight, you think.

A yawn escapes you, the sound of it audible in the quiet of the car. You had a shorter, fitful sleep last night, having been too busy worrying over today. When Luke and Kieran told you that they had managed to cleared their boss’s schedule, you had to scramble to make sure everything was in place.

Sylus tilts his head, his sensitive ears picking up the sound. “Am I boring you, sweetheart?” he says, sounding almost offended.

You start to shake your head, but remember he can’t see the movement.

“I didn’t sleep too well yesterday.”

“Bad dreams?” he asks quietly, casually.

You’re glad he can’t see you wince. “No, I just have a lot on my mind.” You pause, then continue hesitantly. “I haven’t had any dreams recently.”

“Is that so?” he murmurs, voice inscrutable.

The car returns to a silence, stagnant and stilted and charged with the energy of unsaid things. The veil hangs heavy in the air between you, unmoved.

You shift in your seat, your hand gripping the wheel, grimacing. You had to open your big mouth. This happens too often now—you, ruining the mood by bringing up the night that you’re both skirting around. Why is it the right words never find their way out of you?

You think about your plan again, not out of worry, but out of comfort. Remind yourself what this whole trip was for. Where the words die in your throat, your actions will speak for you.

You open your mouth to say something to break the silence, but Sylus beats you to it.

“You know, we’ve been driving north for quite a while now. We must be past Linkon by now. And since we turned east about 17 minutes ago-”

“Sylus!” You screech, your train of thought derailed as panic overtakes you. You want to whack him but manage to keep your hands on the wheel. Instead, you turn to glare at him as he smiles, all sharp teeth and mischief. “You- no! You’re can’t keep track of where we’re going!”

He shrugs innocently. “I can’t help it, sweetheart. Instincts of a trained criminal, I’m afraid.”

The smug bastard. You fight the urge to get off the road to do a few donuts to throw him off track. It’d likely just make you dizzy instead. Besides, you’re feeling kindhearted and charitable, unlike someone.

“I should’ve brought a fidget toy for you,” you grumble. Or that coin you always see him play with.

He just laughs. Low, rich, and heavy—a sweet song, the only melody his voice can carry.

“No need kitten,” he purrs. “I have everything I could ever need right here, entertainment and all.”

His hand unerringly finds your own, resting on the center console. Warmth envelops you as his hand dwarfs yours, rough and calloused, gentle in the way you’ve come to expect from him. It never fails to make you feel safe, soothed. You resist the urge to flip your palm up, intertwine your fingers together.

He plays with your hand, thumbs over your pulse. Your erratic heart, tense with worry, has since calmed during your banter. You wonder if he can feel it. You think he enjoys feeling its slow and steady rhythm, one that his own hummingbird’s heart fails to beat.

You miss the way he subtly relaxes, untensing as you calm.

The silence that settles in is pleasant, companionable as you continue to drive, your hand in his. The sounds of cars rushing by fades as you leave them behind, turning away from the main road. Asphalt becomes dirt under your tires, narrowing into a single unpaved lane. You steer Sylus’ car through the meandering forks in the trail, recalling the directions Luke and Kieran gave you the other day. Eventually, you find what you’re looking for.

“We’re here,” you announce, pulling the car to a stop. The nervousness slowly trickling back in. This is it.

You get out of the car, taking the time to collect yourself. You’re a seasoned Hunter, part of the best of the best—you’ve fought Wanderers the size of trucks before, infiltrated the ranks of notorious criminals, handled heckling reporters at the scene of metaflux instabilities. You can handle giving a little surprise gift to Sylus.

You round the car and open the passenger door, taking the time to examine him. He’s humming a little tunelessly, body relaxed as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. He cocks his head at the sound of the door opening, eyes still shut. Hm, you didn’t anticipate this to be a problem. After a moment of deliberation, you speak.

“Sylus, do you trust me?”

“Sweetheart, I would lay down my life for you in a heartbeat,” he answers with a gravity unbefitting of the circumstances.

You roll your eyes, used to his antics by now, his flair for theatrics. “Okay, mister dramatic. I’ll settle for just your hands.”

He sniffs, almost like he was offended, but remains pliant as you slip your hands under both of his to hold them. Indulge yourself with the feel of his hands in yours as he returns the favor, holding them gently. With your help, he gets out of the car.

This inverse of this scene has played out plenty of times before; Sylus has always so gentlemanly helped you from his car whenever you’re out with him. It feels nice to be on the giving end rather than the receiving, for once.

“We’re almost there, just follow me and then you can open your eyes.”

You angle yourself to look over your shoulder as you walk, leading him onwards. There’s a small trail nestled between the dense brush, under the shadows of viridian trees. You make your way over, an occasional murmured apology leaving your lips when your feet bump into Sylus’s. It’s such an awkward way of walking, sort of sideways and backwards, all the while staying close enough to hold both his hands. You don’t want to let either of his hands go, though. And he doesn’t seem to mind, indulgently docile as you find your tempo eventually.

For all he looks lax and nonchalant, you know Sylus is on alert and attentive, gleaning whatever he can of his surroundings from his other senses. Another perk of being a ‘trained criminal’, you suppose. You can practically see him cataloguing the scent of the cool fresh air, the hush of the trees swaying and the decidedly un-urban sounds of birdcall and silence on the wind. There’s not much you can do about that besides escort him faster.

When you almost trip on a tree root jutting out into the trail, you automatically start to adjust your stance to avoid falling, reflexes courtesy of your Hunter’s training. But there was no need; Sylus’s hands grip yours, strong and sure, steadying you as you find your balance.

You brace yourself, knowing what’s coming.

“Be careful kitten,”—and there it is, that teasing lilt, mirth in his voice— “If you get injured, I can’t carry you without opening my eyes. Wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise for me, would we?”

“I was distracted, my eyes were on you,” you bite back without missing a beat, mimicking the quip he always says when you’re in a firefight together. If he was going to use your own words against you, you’re not above doing the same.

His lips quirk upwards at the familiar words leaving your mouth. “As they should be.”

You huff a laugh at his self-satisfied reply but hold onto his hands tightly, as he does with yours. You can’t tell who is supporting who, as you continue on.

Eventually the gravelly dirt underfoot gives way to grass. You catch a glimpse of your final destination through the underbrush: a peek of open sky, a hint of something that shone like jewels nestled in verdure. Excitement prickles at your senses, your breath quickening with each step as your strides grow longer, and it’s not before long before you’re all but tugging him along.

“You know sweetheart,” Sylus begins, as you pull him to the final stretch, his long legs effortlessly keeping up with your pace, “for all the undercover work you do as a Hunter and with me, it might do you well to practice your stealth a little more. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you plotting with Luke and Kieran behind my back. And you forget, Mephisto is always watching.”

You refuse to take his bait, not when he’s finally here. Your scheming had to have worked, there was no other way. “Shush, you definitely didn’t figure it out! Come on, come on, you can open your eyes now!”

Of course, your words don’t stop his attempts to provoke you. “If you say so. But if you wanted to unwind and go fishing with me you could have just-” he cuts himself short as he opens his eyes.

“Surprise!” you flourish your hands, albeit a little awkwardly, as if presenting a gift.

Sylus stands there, frozen. Breathes out your name. “Kitten, what is this?”

“It’s uh, my gift to you.” You turn around to also examine the view.

Flowers. Flowers all around you, blooming under the golden light of an almost setting sun. They flood the open field in a riot of colors, stopping only at the edges of the surrounding forest. Brilliant oranges, deep blues, and luscious purples dot the meadow, strokes of vibrancy amid lush green, a palette of brilliance upturned towards a blushing sky. The air is filled with its sweet scent.

It had taken Luke and Kieran weeks to find this place, what with going behind their boss’s back and finding a spot to your liking. You couldn’t quite explain it, but you wanted to find a place similar to the one in your dreams. You were lucky that this beauty of a place was within a decent driving distance of Linkon.

But still, looking around the small meadow, you wonder if it’s enough.

You wander a little further in, your steps cushioned by the plush grass. You speak to the open sky and the birds that dart through the air, your back still to him.

“I found this place a while ago- Well, Luke and Kieran found this place, but I asked them to look for something like this for me. I wanted to take you here as soon as they showed it to me. But I had to wait for the both of us to be free and it took so long, especially since you’re such a nocturnal creature. There wasn’t a good time to take you here in the past weeks.” You’re rambling now, but you can’t seem to stop yourself. “The influx of Wanderer sightings I told you about last week didn’t help either, since Alpha Team had to be on standby. And then when all that was done I had to figure out how to surprise you and you’re so hard to surprise and-”

You pause only to take a breath. You need to calm down, before you ramble the rest of the daylight away.

You think of Sylus. His gentleness as he places a towel on your fevered forehead, as he coaxes you to eat soup. His hand wrapped around yours, steady and safe. “Anyway, I wanted to do all this to thank you. For taking care of me when I was sick. And being there, always.”

Silence. You turn around.

He’s staring at you, eyes wider than you’ve ever seen them before, plush lips slightly parted. A marble statue standing stock-still against the vividness around him. This is the first time you’ve ever seen him so speechless.

Though it isn’t his usual bored poker face, you still can’t read his expression. Your heart rate picks up nervously. Does he hate it? Perhaps this was a bad idea, a terrible approach to thanking him and apologizing for that night. Maybe it was awkward timing, or that this gesture was given too late.

“Sylus? Are-”

Sylus launches himself at you.

You barely have any time to react. With a gasp you jerk backwards in surprise, but he catches you around the waist, wraps his strong arms around you. The world tilts as his momentum has you both falling. You don’t know how, but he manages to twist himself over to take the brunt of the fall. The world is a kaleidoscope of color as you both roll into the meadow, coming to a stop amidst a patch of lilac.

Everything is still spinning as you reorient yourself. You’re still nestled in Sylus’s arms, on top of him as he lays in the grass and the blooms. You didn’t realize that you were laughing breathlessly until Sylus joins in, a rumbling chuckle reverberating in his chest, under your cheek. You wriggle your arms from his hold, brace them on the ground in an attempt to unplaster yourself from him, but his arms tighten around you and has you collapsing back into his hold. It was only at a mirthful “Sylus!” and a light pinch to his side does he release you.

You sit up and find yourself straddling his torso, hands splayed to steady yourself, muscles rippling under your touch. The rat-a-tat-tat of his heartbeat echoes beneath your fingers. Your chest rises and falls with his, breaths intermingling as you both recover from your tumble. His eyes meet yours, rubies glittering in the sun.

“Does this mean you like it?” you ask, though you think you know the answer.

“I do, sweetheart. Of course.” Sylus doesn’t take his eyes off of you. They’re soft, softer than they have ever been before. “This is the best gift you’ve given me.”

There’s something in the way he looks at you, as if you were the gift given and not the delicate blossoms around him, framing his body in pale purple. His eyes are a lit match, the way it ignites your body, warms your heart. The shadows of anxiety and nervousness flee under the heat of his gaze. In its place is a spark of excitement, the feeling of being pleased that he is pleased. You can’t help the smile slowly taking its permanent residence on your lips.

“You have twigs in your hair,” you say with laughter in your voice, and reach up to pick them off.

They fall away easy enough at your deft hands. Two in particular are stubborn, small and branching enough to have somehow intertwined into his hair. You stop when Sylus lifts his own hand up towards you—to brush your cheek?—no, to wind it into your hair, tugging at it gently. After a moment his hand comes back into your view, revealing his prize.

“You have some as well. We match."

Your hand flies up, landing on a leaf that has made its home in your nest of a hair. “It looks like we’re part of this meadow now too. But a little warning next time, Sylus? Getting tackled by you wasn’t exactly the reaction I was expecting.”

Sylus raises an eyebrow. “And what were you expecting, kitten?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I thought you’d burst into tears of joy or something? I brought tissues and everything.”

Sylus laughs, something loud and raucous, the sound of it brighter than the sunlight enveloping the meadow. “I’ll keep that in mind for the next time you surprise me, kitten. I’ll be sure to act accordingly,” he says, taking a deep breath of fresh air as if he can breathe freely for the first time.

Sylus has yet to move or try to remove you from on top of him, though you had expected him to already. He seems content in this position, lounging in the grass. “So, Luke and Kieran assisted you in finding this place? And kept it hidden from me all this time. I assume the fishing trip discussion was a red herring?”

A quick enthusiastic nod of your head answered his question.

“Mephisto was also in on the plan,” you grin.

It had taken a lot of coaxing and bribing to convince the ornery bird to film the fake interactions of you and the twins talking about fishing and send it to Sylus, in addition to not sending the real recordings. You had a small suspicion that Mephisto was also actively trying to catch you and the twins plotting in order to blackmail some more treats from you. Damned bird. So much thought and careful planning had to be done in order to make sure Sylus was properly surprised. It still makes your head dizzy thinking about it.

Sylus shakes his head in amusement, his hair glinting a shining silver. He looks ethereal underneath you, in this lighting. All hard planes and sharp edges, melting at your touch. “Turning my own subordinates against me, kidnapping me and whisking me away into the woods. You’ve grown quite bold, kitten,” he says, the pride in his voice apparent.

“I didn’t think I’d be able to pull it off,” you say, blooming under his praise. “Taking the legendary leader of Onychinus by surprise? Unheard of.”

“My one true equal,” he murmurs affectionately. “Only you could surprise me like this.”

Only you, only you.

There it is again. Like clouds blowing in to block the sun, the warmth fades. You’re reminded of fever dreams and a careless mouth, saying things it shouldn’t have. You think of pain where there should never be pain, especially when brought on by you. You think of a curtain swaying in the wind, of a lonely figure just on the other side of it. You think of the real reason why you brought him here in the first place.

Sylus must see something change on your face. He parts his lips to speak, but you beat him to it.

“You know Sylus,” you start slowly, softly. Your eyes cut to the lilacs around him, the swaying grass. Look at anything other than the man under you. “It’s okay if you don’t tell me what’s bothering you. You never have to tell me anything.”

You know without looking that he knows exactly what you’re talking about. Sylus is perceptive, as sharp as Xavier’s light blade as it sings through the air.

In truth, you ached to know though of what could possibly hurt Sylus, if only so you can ensure it never happens again. But just as he is ever indulgent of your whims, you would let this want remain unfulfilled and festering inside you if he had no desire to talk about it.

“But that night, seeing that look on your face…it never sat right with me, seeing you that way. I don’t know how I hurt you and I don’t want to ever again. But whatever it was I said, I just needed to say that I’m so-”

“Don’t,” Sylus cuts through your apology softly. You feel the whispers of his fingers at your cheek, his hand a breath away from caressing your face. “Look at me.”

There was no refusing him, when he was so gentle with you. You turn back to those twin hearths, glowing warmly up towards you. There was no hiding from them—you’ve always been an open book. And he knew you best, after all. Your sadness, your pain that mirrors his own from that night, it was all there for him to see.

But, returning his gaze, he couldn’t hide from you either. There was an openness in his words as he spoke, an honesty to the way he lays himself bare before you, under you.

“You have nothing to apologize for, sweetheart. You have no fault in things you have no control over, nor can I ever blame you.” He pauses, clearly picking his words carefully. “There are things in my past that I have safeguarded with my life. Memories that I cherish deeply, that not a single other living soul in this world knows.” His eyes are burning into yours. “Your…dream reminded me of one such memory. That night, I was caught off guard by it. And it…weighs upon me still. One day, when the time is right, I’ll tell you the whole truth behind my words.”

Sylus searches your eyes as you absorb what he said. You want to say something, anything in response to his vulnerability and sincerity. But the words are lodged in your throat, stuck under the lump and the tears that you refuse to let fall. Instead, you just nod and hope he understands your silent acknowledgement.

Sylus smiles softly and nods his head slightly. He releases you from his gaze and turns his head to examine the flowers around him, alighting on them like the sunlight that nourishes them.

“But this gift you have granted me, being with you here. How could I ever bring myself to be burdened by these heavy memories in such a place, given to me with such generosity and benevolence?”

“Is it enough?” you ask, voice small.

“Sweetheart, it is everything I could ever ask for.”

This time it’s your turn to launch yourself at him. Sylus welcomes you with open arms, embracing you just as tightly. Core muscles flex under you as he lifts himself to sit upright, taking you with him.

There are no more words spoken between you. There was no need; the way he holds you and doesn’t let go tells you everything you need to know, and you hope he knows too from the way you return it just as fiercely.

The warm musk of him mixes with the fresh air and the scent of wildflowers. Birdsong and the sound of wild things accompany the rapid-fire song of his heartbeat. The world around you ceases to exist outside of this meadow and Sylus.

You don’t know how long you sat there with him. Eventually, you pull away just enough to stare at him. Contentment colors his eyes, affection lining his features. The setting sun had brought a gentle flush to his face. A small breeze ruffles his hair, some of it falling onto his face.

The curtain had lifted and you glimpse the full majesty of the masterpiece before you.

You were right. He does look gorgeous in the sunlight.

You speak into the serene silence between you. “There’s supposed to be more wildflowers here, you know. But it hadn’t rained in a while and I spent too much time planning and waiting for the right time. And then summer arrived earlier than expected and- yeah, there were supposed to be so much more than this, if we came earlier.”

Sylus reaches to cup your cheek, a promise in his eyes. “Then we’ll come back next spring, together.”

Butterflies dance in your stomach at his words. You have never adored anyone else more. You cover the hand holding your cheek with your own. “Together.”

You turn your gaze to the scenery around you again.

It wasn’t exactly what you envisioned. The dappled wildflowers aren’t the vibrant shade of red you desired. The meadow is flat and surrounded by forest, not towering snowy peaks and rolling hills. The breeze is faint and carries the scent of damp grass, instead of the crisp mountainous air it should be.

Things aren’t perfect.

But they don’t have to be.

Because he is here beside you, in your arms. And that is all that matters. His happiness is a chalice overflowing, sloshing and filling your heart with warmth and contentment. Something inside you relaxes with a quiet sigh, finally at ease. A coil of tension that unwound itself, a restlessness you didn’t know existed because it has always been there.

The shadows of the forest elongate on the earthen ground as the sun dips below the tree line. Your shadow and his are there too, complete with the twigs adorning both your hair, recognizable and unfamiliar all the same.

From a certain angle, one could envision the shadows as that of a dragon holding their beloved, their crown of twigs two pairs of horns, nearly touching as their heads bent towards each other, together at last.

And perhaps one day, when you think back on this day, you will see a double vision of the Sylus you know and the Sylus of your dreams, a Sylus you’ve forgotten, and come to a realization.

But that is an echo of the past and a moment in the future.

Right now, there is no worry, no hesitation, no past or future. Here in this remote, secluded meadow it is just you and him, enjoying the gift that is the present.

[katyawriteswhump]

sleigh bells ring, I'm not listening! (steddie holiday drabble/bingo/whumpcember)

For @steddieholidaydrabbles day 5 prompt, Winter Sports; my first @steddiebingo fill, ‘Dustin Henderson,’ and @whumpcember day 21 prompt, ‘bruises.’ (It was originally day 5 prompt, concussion, but I ended up sparing the boys that for once!)

WC: 977; Rating T; CW: None; Tags: established steddie, mild whump hurt/comfort, fluff.  Maths terms provided by my partner. I have no idea what they mean and have doubtless misused them.

Summary: Steve loves all sports. Apart from winter sports. So, when he’s literally dragged from bed to go sledding with Dustin and Eddie, he’s surprised when it turns out rather magical…

❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️

“Remind me why I agreed to this?” Steve trailed a sled along the snowy track. He glared hotly at Dustin, then pleadingly at Eddie, who trudged on his other side. “It’s too cold for anything other than fucking… sleep.”

Eddie smirked. He didn’t look as miserable as Steve, which was annoying. Dustin, meanwhile, was having none of it:

“Dudes! This is your once-in-a-lifetime embarkation on a voyage of mathematical curiosity. Today, we’re exploring chaos theory! Mandelbrot bifurcations! Feigenbaum constants! You’re never gonna paddle those icy waters alone.”

“You wanna stick a pin in that balloon-head?” Steve asked Eddie, “or should I?” 

Eddie laughed then sneezed dramatically. Steve stopped dead. “You know what? I love sports. Apart from winter sports. Skiing. Luge. Skating. All that shit. Hate it.”

“You worship at the altar of ice-hockey,” pointed out Eddie. 

“Whose side are you on?” Steve nearly yelled: I’m not being dragged into this by a pair of sport-hating geeks! Instead, he mumbled, pathetically, “Wanna go home.”

By now, they’d reached Hawkins’ top sledding slope. A smattering of kids zoomed down the super-compacted ice. Eddie regarded the scene with a misty smile, which shocked Steve out of his grouchiness.

“I’m in, Henderson.” Eddie’s smile evolved into a full-on-adorable, dimpled grin. “I got great memories of this spot—me, mom, and a big-ass tea-tray. Who needs a goddamn sled?”

“We do.” Dustin whipped out a stopwatch. “We’ve a shitload of interesting variables at play here. Let’s go.”

‘Science’ commenced. Dustin sledded first, then Steve, who gritted his teeth and endured. Eddie went last, screaming his way down the slope… 

“…like a little girl,” said Dustin to Steve, super-earnest. “A little girl who’s in need of hugs, Steve.”

“Bullshit on so many levels.” Steve pointed to a nearby grade-school sledder. “She isn’t screaming. And my boyfriend’s scream is totally metal.”

“Okay. Just, y’know…” Dustin mumbled behind his hand, as Eddie approached with the sled. “He needs more hugs.”

Steve wrinkled his nose. Huh?

After several more runs, Dustin leafed through his notebook. “Interesting data. Now, both of you—on the sled.”

Steve planted frozen fists on his hips: “No way. Not big enough.”

“It’s fine,” said Eddie. “Totally bigger than mom’s tea-tray.”

Steve silently surrendered yet again. Eddie treasured memories of his mom, who passed when he was young. This clearly meant a lot to him, as well as Dustin, so Steve took pole position to steer—as much as anyone could with a dumb rope. Eddie perched behind, wrapping his arms around Steve, notching his chin on Steve’s shoulder. It was super-cosy, and… yeah, super-nice. They didn’t usually get this close in public, plus they’d avoided showing affection in front of their friends lately because—

“Ready?” yelled Dustin.

Steve’s nerves jangled. Eddie yelled: “Hell, yeah! Steddin’ with the Devil!”

“3, 2, 1, GO!”

Heel-power propelled them off. Wind whooshed through Steve’s hair, while Eddie unleashed his most deafeningly ‘metal’ scream yet. It was a bumpy ride, but mega-fun. Steve found himself grinning madly, though fearing for his hearing, and then:

“Shiiiiit!” He spotted the rock way too late. On impact, the world flipped, and he was thrown from the sled, landing heavily on his side. He suppressed a whimper, because something else mattered way more:

“Eddie?”

His heart lurched to his throat, pounding madly even after he spotted Eddie lying in the snow. Steve scrambled up, limped gingerly over: “You okay?”

“Yeah. You?”

Steve nodded.

Eddie finished his snow-angel and sat up, shaking his hair like a wet dog: “Mom said it ain’t sledding till you crash.”

 “All good, gentlemen?” panted Dustin, skidding to join them.

“Apparently.” Steve dumped his bruised butt down next to Eddie.

“Great,” said Dustin. “Why aren’t you hugging?”

 “Uuuuuuh, should we be?”

“Yes!” shouted Dustin, and it all blurted out. Apparently, ‘science’ had a secondary agenda.  “You used to be all lovey-dovey smoochy! Lately, you’ve hardly touched. I figured if I got you squished on a sled, adrenaline rushing, old magic might rekindle?”

Steve merely gawked at Dustin, whose recent weirdness began to make sense. Eddie, meanwhile, threw his arms around Steve’s neck and spoke between bursts of crazy laughter: 

“The issue here, Dustin Henderson, is lack of Party communication. We stopped touching, because Max said we made her wanna hurl. Mike complained it was creepy! We’re still in love! I mean, when you thumped on our door today, we were totally fu… cuddling.” 

“Oh,” said Dustin, visibly brightening. Eddie resumed cackling into Steve’s shoulder. Steve took his cue to fling both arms around Eddie and burrow close for warmth.

Once back home, they got dry and toasty, gently kissing each other’s more visible bruises. Eventually Eddie, stretched out on the bed, noticed Steve’s slight limp. “You got another bruise to show me, Baby?”

Steve tugged down his pants, revealing a mottled rainbow-spectrum of colors spreading up his thigh and ass-cheek to his hip. He coyly arched a brow. “Honest to God, today was a blast and totally worth it… but, yeah, that spot requires serious kissing better.”

“Looks too sore even for kisses.” Eddie flung open his arms. “I’m sorry?”

“Don’t you dare be. It was my shitty steering.”

“C’mere. Right now.”

Steve obeyed, rolling back into the enthusiastic lovemaking that science and goddamn Henderson had interrupted. He bitched about his bruise, but only slightly—especially as Eddie lavished extra care on nearby areas, with lips and tongue, to distract him.

“Sledding again tomorrow?” suggested Eddie, much later, while they snuggled inside watching fresh snow falling.

“You are joking, right?”

“Don’t worry, Stevie. Your ass is safe… though maybe not from me.”

Eddie’s answer segued into a sweet, lingering kiss, which Steve returned enthusiastically. He’d learned important shit today about his two favorite people. Eddie loved sledding. And Dustin loved his friends loving each other. Steve still blindsided himself, breaking the kiss to whisper:

“Maybe more sledding next week?”

❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️

tags: @wheneverfeasible 💚 My stranger things fic on AO3

[concerningwolves]

i needed to de-stress so I took my laptop and sketchbook up to bed, pulled up The Book of Kells, scrolled to a random page, zoomed in on a design, and spent two hours figuring out how to replicate it. And I just. I kind of need to go a bit insane about this.

A monk 1,200 years ago made this drawing. In a room with poor heating and variable light, doing close, detailed work. The book survived the Viking raids. It may have travelled hundreds of miles across tumultuous seas. It survived over a thousand years of history through wars and famine and religious strife. It was almost certainly intended to be admired for its beauty, and now anyone in the world can use a device that monks in the 8th century could never have imagined in order to do just that. And here I sit bent over a tray, struggling to get good enough light, painstakingly sketching out lines that someone first drew over a thousand years ago,,

[ellaenchanting]

Hello, I have a new sub (he’s new to all kink, including hypnosis) who is definitely experiencing hypnoamory.

I keep trying to explain to him that hypnoamory is not safe but I don’t fully understand the risks myself so it’s difficult to explain them to him.

I can’t find much online and you have amazing insights and I’m hoping you can help explain it to me, so I can explain it to him?

Thank you, in advance.

-A

Reader's follow up message for context:

"A here, I asked about the hypnoamory. It seems almost like he’s falling in love, and it’s been obscenely fast.

He keeps mentioning (undefined) feelings, and is expressing them strongly. Wanting to constantly be with me, even if it means breaking his own rules of not being on a Zoom call while his sister (his roommate) is around. (I nipped that in the bud and said I didn’t consent to that.)

When I suggest caution, and bring up, hypnoamory, it’s quite hard to explain to him why it’s risky when I don’t fully know myself.

(I’ll admit, some of these (undefined) feelings are reciprocated, and that also worries me, because how can I take care of him, if I’m also dealing with it.)”

Answer:

Hi anon!

Thank you so much for this question! I'm really excited to answer it. Not only do I (apparently) have lots of thoughts here, I'm really excited to hear about what others have to say on this topic. Hopefully we’ll create some good discussion about hypnosis and love and consent/safety- I know I’m really curious what people with different experiences have to say about this!

ON HYPNOSIS AND LOVE

For this response, I’m going to assume “hypnoamory” means love or attachment that is created primarily or largely through hypnosis play. I know someone on one of my Discords defined “hypnoamory” as a “speed run to intimacy”- another definition that can really be fitting. It makes sense to be concerned about a partner who seems to be feeling too much or moving too fast. How do you manage a relationship with someone who seems to feel so much so fast?

So- to back WAY up: We tend to think of love as this magical, enigmatic thing that just happens to us, but there's actually a fair amount of research on variables that may lead to greater connection and even love. There’s no one formula that applies to all people, but there are some actions that seem to make love more likely. Sex is one- a good orgasm involves dopamine, oxytocin, vasopressin and these are all neurochemicals linked with attachment. Of course, people often HAVE sex to express their love so the attachment is already there but it's also seemingly common for people having casual sex to fall for one another.

Emotional intimacy is another common precursor to love. You may have seen this list of 36 "questions that lead to love" floating around (https://www.verywellmind.com/unpacking-the-36-questions-that-lead-to-love-8559179) . This list of questions works (when it works) because it speeds up the natural process by which people build intimacy. It invites sharing and listening and vulnerability and trust. Those same things will happen naturally over time in a healthy relationship, using the questions is just designed to speed that process up.

These ideas may be a good framework to start thinking about hypnoamory. Hypnokink play is often full of things that are known "love triggers" for many people- things that would naturally make them more likely to bond or even fall in love. Hypnosis itself seems to release some of the same neurotransmitters associated with love- dopamine, GABA, serotonin.* There's often sexual arousal and sex/orgasms that make people feel good. Happy calm feelings. Happy safe/cared for feelings. There's novelty and learning. There's communication and trust. There's engaging in an activity both people enjoy. There can be feelings of danger, leading to physical arousal and then emotional/sexual arousal. There's dependence. There’s intimacy. In fact, the whole process of hypnotizing someone is giving them the illusion that you're in their brain. What could be more intimate than that?

Then there's the kink aspect. Pretend someone has gone through their life with this secret, hidden desire. It’s something they dare not talk to anyone about for fear that they’ll be mocked or shamed. No one else in the world seems to get their kink. They don't even know if the thing they want is POSSIBLE.

Then, one day they meet a person who DOES get it. Not only does this person get it, they seem to want the same things. And, better yet, not only does this person have similar fantasies, they actually want to DO the thing. With YOU.

How could you not fall in love?

Here's a personal anecdote:

When I fell in love with my wife, it happened slowly and gently. We dated, we got to know each other, we hung out more and more, and then I turned around about a year later and I was in love. I was like a dropped feather- slowly drifting downwards until I gently landed on the ground. Happily and safely eased into love.

I fell for my first hypnokink partner like a rock falls from a cliff. It FELT like those teenage romances from books and movies- Romeo and Juliet, Buffy, Titanic- landing with a big "thump" of feeling and obsession. I was well into adulthood when it happened, fortunately, so I didn't do anything too disruptive or embarrassing with it. I was in a situation where I could talk it through. But- I remember being able to finally understand how people in love could do crazy things. It DID feel a bit like an addiction. I was going about my life and then- completely knocked on my ass. Nothing I had done before prepared me.

All of this is to say- hypnoamory definitely exists. It doesn't happen all the time** but in my experience it happens frequently. And, just like love "caused" by sex or answering the 36 questions or, say, surviving a disaster together, I wouldn't say hypnoamory love is inauthentic. In fact, I don’t think love CAN be inauthentic. We feel what we feel. What I WOULD say, though, is that most people caught up in that initial high are experiencing a particular stage of love called "infatuation". (Around the community you may also hear the term “new relationship energy” or “nre”- it's basically infatuation but make it poly). The infatuation is fun but can also be a cause for caution.

People contrast infatuation*** with "real love" but IMHO that’s short sighted. For many people, infatuation is actually the first stage OF being in love. When someone’s infatuated, attraction feels almost overwhelming. Your whole neurochemistry (dopamine, norepinephrine, phenylephrine) is driving you to spend more and more time with the person you love. You think obsessively about the other person. You feel bad when they're not around. It feels a bit like an addiction.

Strong infatuation actually resembles being high in some ways. Like when you’re high, your amygdala isn't quite working right and thus your judgment can be impaired. This is the phase where people can sometimes feel extra compelled towards bad decisions. They may do things like move in with someone they just met, leave a long-established relationship for someone new and hot, or stop doing things to take care of themselves****. They may neglect other important parts of their life and people in their life. In kink, someone who is infatuated may push for strong attachment play (brainwash me!), push for constant contact/play, or disregard boundaries that were pretty firm before. They may want to jump into the most intense kinky play more quickly.

For most people, infatuation is a phase. It can last from days to weeks to years depending on the person (and the research you're looking at) but- ideally infatuation will settle down into a more stable relationship in time. It’s not the strong impairment of being drunk (or being hypnotized)- it’s still pretty accepted in the hypnokink community (and in general) that someone who is infatuated can give reasonable, legitimate consent. That consent may just take a bit more discussion and thoughtfulness.******

Also- on the positive side, infatuation can be really fun! And being in love feels great! Being infatuated doesn't automatically mean someone is immature or unintelligent or incapable of having a kink relationship. Infatuation is just a possible side effect of hypnokinky play (and kink play)(and having a relationship)(and life).

A NOTE ON SUB FRENZY

In addition to “nre”, another term you might here around the community is “sub frenzy”. Sub frenzy is the tendency for new subs to want to do ALL of the things (and often play with all of the people) when they first get started in a kink. It's like infatuation, but for an activity instead of a person. My friend @daja-the-hypnokitten (who suggested and really helped out with this part of this answer) described it for me as being like someone who always thirsted and never got water- but now that they HAVE water they might gulp it down and drink so much that they make themselves sick. Someone who is in sub frenzy may push for tons of play in a way that harms them/where they neglect other things and may push for the most intense play ASAP.

A lot of the suggestions I talk about below might help with both sub frenzy and regular infatuation for a person. My friend suggested that what's often most helpful for her is having logistical conversations about her stronger desires- (ex. “Hey, if I give you a fetish for the color red, how might that work practically? What problems may come up? What safeties might we need in place?”) That way, she knows an idea is being worked on (which can soothe that craving for more more more now) but is also thinking about it in a practical way instead of just as a hot fantasy.

COPING WITH INFATUATION

So- infatuation is common in what we do, especially if you are someone’s first kinky partner. That being said, I definitely understand your caution with it. You're looking out for your sub and not wanting to influence them unduly. You don't want to continue a relationship dynamic that may be unhealthy for them. It speaks well of you as a dominant that you are paying careful attention to how your sub is doing and what may be influencing them/their consent.

Here's how not to handle it:

1. DON'T go for a magic cure. For some people, it would be tempting to want to cure this by hypnosis itself- to hypnotize your partner and give them a suggestion to not feel love for you anymore. That would be a BIG mistake. Repression tends to cause more problems than it answers and trying something like this could lead to really bad consequences. Also, especially if you tried this without your sub's conscious consent, it would be a big violation of their personal autonomy and their trust in you.

2. DON'T go radio silent or start backing away from your sub without talking about it. If you felt responsible for your sub’s feelings or actions, you might be tempted to limit your contact with them to not do any more "damage" to them. Shame or regret may make you want to back off. If that’s happening, I urge you to reconsider it. You can have kind intentions, but if you just disappear one day, your sub will likely blame himself and that would create problems in future relationships. He might think about you MORE after being ghosted or feel more in love with you in unhealthy ways. For some people, that sudden drop can keep them ruminating about the relationship for YEARS. You'd also lose everything that YOU have invested in this relationship, as well as the chance of it being healthy and rewarding relationship for you. Your sub being in love with you isn’t something you’re doing TO him, it’s just the situation you find yourselves in. It doesn’t necessarily have to be a bad one.

(This isn't to say you shouldn't be able to set boundaries for your mental health and even safety- I’ll talk about this more below. There might even come to a time when going radio silent is the best option! Hopefully, though, disconnecting without speaking would be a last resort if other attempts at boundary setting didn’t work .)

Here are some things to consider instead:

-DO have a big ole conversation with your sub. Several conversations. MANY conversations. ONGOING conversations. It sounds like you've already started having these. Great! It's totally fair to express your concern about his feelings using some of the language and explanations in the first section. That being said, ultimately neither you nor he are going to be able to control what he feels. Being infatuated is usually not something someone can just decide to stop doing. That’s not how feelings work. "I'm worried you're in love with me because of our hypnosis play" may be a good place to start a conversation but- it doesn't give him a lot to respond to. He can't just choose to not be in love with you any more- just like he can't choose to make you not worried. It may be helpful to think more about WHY you’re worried- what do you think might happen? Do you want him to change his behavior towards you right now? Are things OK now but you’re worried how this may affect things in the future?

A lot of times, starting from concrete observations might help start a conversation. Ex: "I know you've been talking more about how much you care for me. You've seemed more willing to push your own boundaries- like having your sister in the room when we talk." From there, you can move in to what you're worried about. (ex. "I'm worried you're getting so caught up in our play that you aren't studying", "I'm worried you seem to be neglecting your other relationships", "I'm worried that you're ignoring your boundaries and that you'll end up either regretting it or getting hurt.")

After you state your concerns, give him time to talk and listen to what he says. Ideally, you'll be able to both express your point of view and understand each other's by the end of the conversation. From here, you may be able to work out a plan together to address what’s going on. Or, you might be in a place where the plan is to keep touching base about your feelings- or even in a place where the hypnoamory doesn’t feel so worrisome. I know for me and my sub, we'll have frequent "hey, am I influencing you too much?" check ins. At this point, those check-ins seem to function primarily to provide reassurance to me as the domme- but that’s ok! They're also good chances for both of us to discuss how our D/s is going, what we’re feeling, if we have any new boundaries we need to set, etc. Even if I’m initially nervous about bringing something up, I usually feel really reassured when a conversation is over.

HEY, ARE YOU INFLUENCING YOUR SUB TOO MUCH?

I didn't say this above but I'll say this here- I doubt your sub's strong feelings are due to the way you're doing hypnosis or hypnokink. A lot of things probably have more influence on how he is feeling and responding than your play together. After all, people naturally get closer and have looser boundaries and pick up each other's preferences/habits/mannerisms the more time they spend together even without kink. In hypnokink we sometimes romanticize some of these natural responses as part of “brainwashing” but- in actuality, they’re normal parts of many longer term relationships. However, I don’t want to ignore the role hypnosis and kink play may have in influence. Here are some things to consider if you are worried that you are influencing your sub too much in play:

- How ARE you wording your suggestions to him? Are you telling him that he's enraptured, helpless against you, worshipful, obsessed with you, etc? Are you implying or saying you're the only one that can make him feel this way? There's a lot of language that people regularly use in hypnokink that wouldn’t be out of place in a particularly saucy Victorian love poem. I doubt these words alone are creating love whole-cloth, but this kind of flowery kink talk is also packed with suggestions and suggestions can have effects. Even the harsher-sounding kink talk- things like "You are my property" or "You're worthless without me" can create dependence and feelings of love. Flowery sexy hypnotalk suggestions can linger sometimes even if you are "just" role-playing or if you give suggestions to “cancel” those previous suggestions at the end of a session. They also might not! It really depends on the person! (Example- Think of a sad movie you've seen. You can often still feel the sadness now even though you KNOW the movie itself wasn't real.)

If themes around romance/dependence/worship are coming up in your scenes, it's a good idea to be mindful about them and how you're using them. Is this something that you both consciously wanted as a theme in play or did it just kind of sneak in because those are typical tropes? How are you both feeling about those themes now? I wouldn't say to stop speaking in ways that are hot to you both, but talking about how and when and why might be a good next step. Sometimes even both consciously and verbally setting intentions about what you want the relationship to look like outside of scenes helps. Know that even in really self-knowledgeable subs, there can be "bleed" of emotions from in the scene to out of it- so it’s good to keep checking in! “Positive” emotions especially may have this tendency to linger.

Putting limiters around a scene may not work perfectly, but it may help prevent some emotional bleedover. Some ways you might do this could include setting up fantasy scenarios/ role play, consciously undoing suggestions at the end of a scene, or "locking" suggestions to limit them to a certain person/certain time/certain place. Doing good check ins after a scene and aftercare can help you discuss lingering effects- especially if the aftercare moves someone out of a submissive headspace and into a more normal one.

- Are you doing long term conditioning? If you're doing any suggestions that linger outside of a scene, those suggestions have the chance of tying the other person to you (even if unintentionally). Here’s an example that seems really innocuous: Pretend that I give someone a suggestion that every time he walks through a doorway, he will touch his nose. This person does this a bunch of times during the week. Fun! Silly! But also- there's a secret sneaky second trigger in here. While this person is touching his nose, he is also likely thinking of me, the hypnotist who gave him that suggestion. Maybe he thinks of how much fun we're having together or how hot it is that I've compelled his behavior. It IS hot and fun! Now he’s thinking of me in hot/fun ways a bunch of times a day -every time he walks through the door, in fact! It might not have been my intention, but I’ve accidentally conditioned my guy to think of me in positive ways all day every day. No wonder he might start feeling attached! And this is just a basic example. Imagine the associations that could happen if he had to ask me before he had an orgasm!

Conditioning happens outside of play too. Are y'all talking all day every day? Are you doing positive things at each other randomly and unpredictably? Those actions are probably making you feel closer. (Those unpredictable rewards are POWERFUL.) None of that has to be malicious or consciously manipulative, it’s just how humans bond.

Again I want to emphasize- Feeling close is not a bad thing! Nor is falling in love! And even if you have been engaging in some of these actions, you aren’t responsible for your sub’s actions or emotions. These are normal things for hypnokinksters to do and normal risks for us to take. The question isn’t one of blame (for yourself or him)- it’s where you both want to go from here.

COOLING THINGS DOWN

Hopefully you will both talk together and come to a mutual decision/conclusion. Let's say that you and your your sub talk and you both decide to cool things off a bit. What might work?

- Coming to a true mutual decision about your goals and strategies for cooling things off. Open, non-judgemental, and ongoing communication about feelings here would be helpful. What does “cooling things off” look like? How will you know when it has happened? It’s ok to modify expectations as you go.

- Setting stronger boundaries. If y'all are playing all day every day, you might instead schedule a time to play once a week. You might limit unpredictable suggestions or times where you're texting during the day. You might table bigger relationship step conversations (collaring, moving in together, exclusivity, heavy brainwashing play) for a period of time to settle into the relationship and how you relate to each other after some of the initial intensity has passed. You may also table types of play for a time (for example, if themes of begging and worship are contributing to his strong feelings maybe you both want to back off those for a while pending further conversation).

-Developing trustworthiness in yourselves and each other- If you're worried about him having impaired consent because of love or hypnosis or kink or any combination of these things, talk about this specifically! Make sure you make a relationship where setting boundaries feels really good and comfortable- and where bringing up those conversations feels safe.. I know I try to be really verbally grateful when a partner sets a boundary or even gives critical feedback- it lets me know that they trust me and I can trust them to be taking care of themselves. You can even frame this as part of submission ("you're my property so you need to take care of what's mine") or your partnership/consent ("I worry when you keep changing boundaries because I would feel guilty if I hurt you/our relationship accidentally"). Trust usually increases bonding, but making fertile ground for boundaries can help you both have the conversations you need to make sure the relationship doesn’t feel like “too much”.

- Playing with other partners. Are you worried that your sub may be more in love with kink/ hypnosis itself than they are with you? Sometimes it takes time and experience for new kinksters to really distinguish for themselves if they’re having strong feelings for a person vs strong feelings for an activity. Encouraging his own introspection may help, but playing with other hypnotist partners can help him figure this out too. If you decide to take this step, y'all would want to do it within your own comfort zones and he would want to be careful about who he played with. Suggesting playing with others should never be a command- more of a helpful idea. There's unfortunately some ill-meaning hypnotists out there- so if he’s interested in playing with others, passing on information about finding safe partners and taking care of his subject agency might help him with branching out.

-Talking to other experienced subs. If your partner talks with other hypnosubs, he is likely to be able to find people who can relate to how he is feeling. Sometimes even hearing from someone else who has had similar experiences may be helpful. He could also potentially get tips on how other subjects manage strong emotions in their kink dynamics. Ditto for you talking to other dominants. This is a known issue within the community- many people have dealt with it and can offer empathy and ideas.

YOUR BOUNDARIES MATTER

I’ve been talking a lot in this response about his boundaries and your mutually agreed upon kink boundaries but- you get your own boundaries too! We sometimes skip talking about dominant/top boundaries in kink but- it’s very important that you are paying attention to your own comfort zone and needs. Boundaries help both of you continue to play in a way that feels fun/safe/enjoyable for everyone involved. This may sound harsh but- just because your sub is in love with you, that doesn't necessarily have to change what YOUR boundaries are (unless you want it to). Similarly, just because your sub is wanting to ignore his earlier boundaries, it doesn’t mean that you have to change your boundaries if that makes you uncomfortable. (In fact, I tend to be the brakes in a relationship more often when I'm topping than bottoming- and I think that's pretty common for a lot of switches.) For example, I'm really glad that you were clear and firm about not having his sister around on calls. If he’s doing things that are dangerous to himself in a way that pushes YOUR boundaries, it’s OK to say that and set conditions. (Ex. “I know you are really invested in our kink play, but if you drop out of school because of it, I won’t want to play with you any more.”)

If you’re worried about managing sudden boundary changes on his part, you can always give yourself pauses to think and decide what’s comfortable for you. For example, let’s say that he contacts you right before a scene and wants something that would push his previous boundaries. It would be OK in that case to say if you’re not comfortable with that- that you’d like to think about it and discuss it later. Or you may even say “no” outright if it's uncomfortable for you. You might even consider a new relationship rule- if he (or either of you) want to do something that pushes previously-held boundaries, you need to have a sober discussion about it first.

Lastly, if he’s pushing your boundaries and KEEPS pushing them after you try to talk, you might have to set stronger boundaries- up to and including breaking up with him. Being in love can explain his intensity, but if he can’t take a “no” then we’re moving into something really unhealthy. (I like this little worksheet about separating a healthy relationship vs an unhealthy one vs an abusive one- it’s not kink specific but has good information in general about what each of these relationships may look like- https://idas.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2022/02/Healthy-Relationships-Checklist-2.pdf )

I know this was a lot of information anon! I hope it helps! Please feel free to write me with follow up questions (and that goes for anyone reading). Also- I only know things here from my own experience and life philosophies- I hope other people will read this and add their perspective/knowledge! Between all of us, I hope you find the knowledge you're looking for!

Thank you to @linnybeenaughty , @ultinath ,@dancercoder , @spiralturquoise , and especially @daja-the-hypnokitten for the beta reads!; I appreciate your thoughts and help checking this for me! Any grammar mistakes or spelling mistakes or general wonkiness are my fault, not theirs.

Footnotes (for Nerds)

*I realize I’m leaning a lot on neurotransmitters here so- just to say, MANY activities release these neurotransmitters, not just hypnosis and love. Neurotransmitters are always swimming around in our head- they help our brain through its daily functioning. People especially sometimes talk as though things that trigger dopamine are innately addictive but- brains are much more complicated than that. I probably get a dopamine hit from brushing my teeth. It’s a piece of the puzzle here, not the whole thing.

**Side note- That being said, if you've never experienced intense hypnoamory, that's OK too! There's nothing wrong with you and it doesn't mean you don't care about partners. You just fall in love in a different way.

***Other/similar words and concepts it might be helpful to look up- limerence, nre (new relationship energy), puppy love. It isn't exactly "sub frenzy" but learning about that might be helpful too. :)

****Infatuation can make therapists really nervous sometimes because that’s when people do things like stop treatment, go off medications, relapse on drugs, make huge life decisions, etc. It can be hard to balance being infatuated and still working on yourself!

******Infatuation and being Infatuation-impaired is actually its' own subkink. A lot of pro work is out there on that theme. It's edge play and I'm assuming not what you're writing about, but I wanted to acknowledge down here that it exists.

[sirius-bizdness]

Poking around the new Spamton Sweepstakes site...in particular, checking the source code of the cat clicking game. And I noticed something peculiar...

Why is the sound for the eye jumpscare linked alongside the regular sounds...?

Gory details under the cut (plus some unused assets 👀).

Digging deeper, it appears the variable which the jumpscare sound gets written to is used in the function "hardReset()", which gets called in four places. I'm not fluent in Javascript, but it seems like these are the cases when it gets run:

on your 100th cat pull (so, every 100 cats?)

as a random 1 in 1001 chance every time a cat is summoned (except the first

under certain conditions when points value changes (in a function not mentioned elsewhere in the script--is that a JS/HTML interplay thing?)

possibly if the clicked element fails to animate??

(someone with actual JS experience please take a second look)

So what does hardReset() do...? Exactly what you'd expect from a thing which uses the face jumpscare sound. Plays the jumpscare sound, zooms this guy towards you from nothing:

...and cues up a short timer which drops you back on the Sweepstakes homepage.

SIDENOTE: Amusingly, the filename for the grinning face is "/assets/images/cat-009.gif", which matches the naming scheme of the used cat images.

Only five out of eight (+ face) tiers of cat are used in the game. 003, 004, and 008 get skipped, but their graphics are still hosted on the website!

[zaebucca]

About scale, process, palette and canvas: a few considerations on pixel art as a medium

User moredogproblems answered an interesting and legitimate question by another, DiscountEarly125, regarding my work and canvas size. He also perfectly isolated two central concepts of pixel art, which are scale and process. Canvas size, which was the theme of DiscountEarly125's specific request, is more of a dependent variable to those two aforementioned concepts, rather than a starting point. I hope the following considerations I shared may help or prompt some other ideas, but this is what I could come up with 15-ish years of experience with pixel art (and a few more years of art and media studies). I was quite in the mood of writing down these few thoughts that have been floating for a while. I apologize as this may also result in a confusing wall of text, but it is all part of a my work and research, and I would love to polish all the material, hopefully with some thoughts, insights from other colleagues, as well as pictures and materials!

A. Scale and canvas size It is true that the bigger the canvas, the more distance one may visually create from pixel art, but I personally think this is to be possibly considered a matter of perceiving pixels, rather than a fundative problem of the medium. In fact I concur with the idea of "process makes the medium" rather than identifying pixel art as how (evidently) pixeled the result feels. The general picture, or the sum of pixels, though, is a really important matter to the medium nonetheless! Pixels themselves work in relation one with another, so it's their overall result that gives context and makes the subject recognizable. This relationship between pixels links back to all the art fundamentals that each artist is taught, from color theory to shape and composition - and so on. So, the canvas size debate usually boils down to a matter of scale or necessity of your subjects. As long as the dimension (canvas) of your subject (as in: a drawing of an apple, a character sprite, a mockup environment) allows you to operate, control and keep an eye on the quantity (number/area of pixels together) and quality (color, shaping of multiple pixels, texturing obtained through color and shapes) of isolated single pixels or pixeled areas, you're in the pixel art universe. The other way around to define the matter of scaling: in order to be operating pixel art fundamentals and techniques, your subject has to be on a scale that allows you to apply principles of pixel art within the space of your canvas and your personal style. These very same principles, or basics, can be applied with different results and extent to bigger and smaller canvases alike, each with their own specific difficulties and variables. It is important to adapt your scale when learning, and trying classic canvases per subject like "16x16px" (standard tile or character sprite unit, tied to older consoles and screen ratios, it's a bit complicated there) is always a nice idea - they also tend to be industry benchmarks and necessities so in case you'd like to consider a professional output, that's very useful.

Scale also applies to the array of colors, and there lies the concept of palette: a number of single hexadecimal hues we are using for each single pixel. Any single pixel can have one hexadecimal color only.

Consequentially it is absolutely true that either a huge canvas or a palette too broad may prevent a viewer from perceiving immediately the "nature" of your medium, namely seeing square pixels, recognizing a certain amount of color - or more thoroughly recognizing that you made some choices for each subject on a pixel level. What could possibly happen on a huge canvas (without zooming in) is that you can't really grasp the pixels, but just the "overall picture" - and that may not differ too much from digital, raster art, which is of course also based on pixels. Therein appearently lies a sort of threshold that is really hard to pin down for us pixel artists, as it depends on screen size, visualization methods, distance, filters and lots of other inherently subjective parts.

This kinda is my case sometimes: I make big environments (possibly too big, and too detailed in each part I tell myself) that are a sum of many lesser parts: both tilesets and sprites that relate (but not strictly adhere) to a basic space unit that is 16x16pixels. You can indeed consider scale in a broader sense as a subdivision or magnification issue, much alike squinting your eyes to focus on a picture's overall contrast or, conversely, analyzing its fundamental parts with a magnifying glass, and then a microscope - an analogy as follows:

a. the picture as a whole is like a colorful rock that you can analyze by magnifying its grain. b. the characters, geographical elements and textures, works like the different substances that compose the rock and give its visible characteristics grain and complexity, c. single pixels constitute the very atoms of those previously recognized substances.

I mean "atom" in the traditional, classical meaning of indivisible, fundative object. That's a "quantized" part of information, which for pixel art is ultimately color (or a binary value, like yes/no black/white). If you were, for example, to crop some parts of my work - let's say 160x144 pixels (a gameboy screen resolution in pixels) you would see the substances that are characters and elements of nature, and when you zoom in again, every atom becomes visible as a single entity of color. There are 29 different type of "atoms" in Ruin Valley as in different, singularly hexadecimal colors that work together in different combinations and shapes to create different substances and characters. 18 of them are used for the different qualities of the environment, and 11 more for extra hues for characters and other elements to pop out a bit.

It's really interesting to see how many pixel artists push this "threshold" of pixel art canvases to the extremely small or the extremely big, whereas, notably, palettes are less open to growth: it is indeed my opinion that pixel art tends to quantize color (quality) over than dimension (quantity). Palettes, notably, do not grow exponentially, but tend to a lower, fixed, controlled amount of individual values instead. This usually gives the artist the true possibility and toolkit through which is possible to think about/with pixels. In other words: color (or its absence) is the founding unit and identity of pixel art as a digital medium.

B. Pixels as process or pixels as objective? Pixels themselves (as strange as that may sound!) are not to be considered an objective of pixel art, I think, but the founding matter of its research as a medium instead. I think that making pixel art is not just devoting oneself to show those jagged, squarey areas or blunt edges that we all know and love: this is just one of the possible aesthetics that pixel art conveys or adopts - especially on small canvases. Pixel art is not about denouncing itself as pixels, but, rather, embracing the square, atomic unit to build an ensemble that conveys a content or a style. That's the important part of the discourse that emancipated pixel art into being a medium, and not just an aesthetic choice or style of representation. Again: process makes this medium. Speaking of that, I consider pixel art as part of a broader family of "quantized art", namely media that operate on/with "indivisible, founding bricks and unities" that can assume a certain quality (color, mainly) within a certain quantity (palette, canvas size) and in relation to its surroundings to describe something. This puts pixel art, with its specifics and with a certain degree of semplification, among other mediums such as cross-stitch, bead art, construction sets, textile art (on a warp and weft basis), (micro-)mosaics and others.

A classic threshold example of process vs objective: oekaki art. Oekaki art - which I love and also happen to make from time to time - doesn't really work or "think" specifically on a pixel base: it doesn't place pixels per se, but uses pixel-based areas and textures on bigger canvases with a certain degree of freedom, like one would normally do with brushes on raster digital art programs (adobe ps, gimp, clip studio and so on) in order to convey an aesthetic with fewer colors and a certain line style and texturing. That way, oekaki uses and knows pixels in a deep way, but doesn't see them primarily in a quantized way. As a result the "overall picture" shows pixels to a certain extent, and it's possible to recognize distinct pixels for each part, but the objective is not an analysis and use of pixel and quantized information, but the use of an aesthetic based upon accessibility of resources, their control and a certain rendering style.

A huge part of pixel art is its absolute accessibility: everyone with a fairly outdated computer or screen and a basic drawing program can study the medium. To be fair, it's indeed considering accessiblity that I highly support an inclusive approach to the term "pixel art" and I think traditional oekaki is a close, beautiful relative that builds upon the rules and techniques of pixel art and pixel rendering, yet keeping its identity as its very own medium - somehow like a dress may be built around/upon textile design. Anyway, boundaries are meant to be crossed and I think there definitely are lots of oekaki and pixel-based art that meet traditional pixel art mid-way - or further. I also think the "is it pixel art?" discourse possibly ensuing - and generally speaking any media belonging purist ontology - is a treacherous, slippery terrain leading to excesses, and this is not my focus today, neither am I able to tackle that subject extensively at the moment.

C. Conclusions and a few good exercises Everything above may be farfetched or too complicated as a starting point. I tried to write all down as orderly as possible. The point of this (possibly discouraging) analysis and the reasoning between scale and process is that (pixel) art is about trying different canvases, and reasoning on one's subject and objective, rather than limiting oneself to presets sizes or styles. It's important to choose something that resonates with us and, in doing so, thinking about other, more interesting limitations: that's the discourse about quantity of space and quality in color. Limiting is the best possible exercise and one I wholeheartedly encourage: by doing so we are progressively delving deeper on the basics, as we learn the fundamental relationships between shapes and colors that we can achieve through pixels. A few good exercises that I too implemented in my own workflow come to mind: 1. Trying different canvases (or sizes) for the same subject (sprite, character art, illustration or so on). This helps a lot finding a comfortable size to apply pixel techniques, as well as getting a hold over fundamentals such as aliasing, linework, conventional representation and so on. 2. Trying different palettes for the same subject, both by varying colors themselves (therefore learning about values and contrast and readability, as well as atmosphere and mood!) or singular hues and their components, in order to discover possible relationship between them. Have fun! 3. Reducing the width of the palette progressively for the same subject: reducing the number of singular colors forces a reasoning on shapes, rapresentation. You may go from 1-bit art (just black/white) to 3 colors, 4, 8 and so on. We'll not talk about transparency as a singular color there, but if you happen to be interested in retro art, transparency counts to the palette size. This exercise is very useful in rendering, and possibly tricky. And definitely fun. :') 4. Choosing an objective and usage of our work: for example trying to learn about old pixel art limitations for games, in order to reason within specifics. Get inspired by traditional games (spriters-resource is your best friend here, in case you have a specific retrogame you're thinking of)! I will probably talk about limitations and style on another post. 5. Four eyes (and other multiples) are better than two: try to talk with people and friends and other artists you trust and feel comfortable with to get their point of view. This can be scary, I know, especially at the beginning. You're not forced to, of course, but if you do (in a safespace) there's lots you can learn about concepts such as readability, subject recognition, rendering and composition. Our eyes and brains get accustomed to something, and pixel art being a rather analytic medium made of synergies, subtle changes, limitations and conventions is especially tricky on the artist's eyes on the long term. Either way, the important thing about pixel art is understanding that this medium is about recognizing and enjoying the process rather than the eventual aesthetic and in order to do so the best choice is to start simple, small, with few colors and techniques at a time! Have fun and hit me up with your progress and considerations. :')

[charl0ttan]

hi char i hope this isnt weird to do but uh

im getting my name changed legally on the 17th and i am Very Fucking Nervous. i know the actual court stuff should be simple (its literally happening over zoom) but everything else, esp as it relates to insurance and stuff, is starting to make me freak out.

i was wondering if you could share this ask so trans folks wiser than i could possibly drop some knowledge/advice in the replies? (unsure if you personally have gone thru this process as well, but obviously if you have some insight id be very grateful!)

i just want to be happy about this - and i was! and i am! - but as the date grows closer, im realizing how many unknown variables there are, and its terrifying...

anyway, thank you very much in advance and have a lovely day! in exchange for ur time, i humbly recommend the book The Fifty Year Sword

i dont have any experience with this but im more than happy to pass this along to anyone who might have advice!

[luxury-poison]

✦ Uso libre. ✦ No retirar créditos, ni usar como base para otro código. ✦ Si desean preguntar sobre cómo está hecho con mucho gusto los puedo guiar, con una pequeña mención en sus futuros diseños.

✦ Código para firma. ✦ Medidas 450 x 250. ✦ La imagen se acomoda con las variables. ✦ No exagerar en título ni en el texto.

✦ Tiene ocho variables:

-accent: Color blanco de la letra.

-shadow: Color sombra de la letra.

-bckgrnd: Color con transparencia del fondo donde está el texto.

-img: Url de la imagen.

-font: Tamaño del titulo.

-zoom: Porcentaje del Zoom de la imagen si solo quieren una parte de la imagen, se puede omitir y ocupara todo el espacio.

-h: Medida en porcentaje para mover la imagen de forma horizontal a gusto.

-v: Medida en porcentaje para mover la imagen de forma vertical a gusto.

✦ Personaje: Neuvillette | Genshin Impact ✦ Cualquier duda, pregunta, sugerencia estoy a un ask de distancia. ✦ Disponible para crear todas sus ideas y volverás realidad; ¡Comisiones abiertas! ¡Pregúntame! ✦ Si te gusta mi trabajo el like y reblog me ayudan a crecer.

[Code] @elalmacen-rp XOX Luxury Poison